Save All Who Dare the Eagle's Flight
by Bardess of Avon
Summary: They called it the Ship of Dreams. It certainly was the Ship of Dreams; I had nightmares about the Titanic for years after just barely escaping.
1. Prologue

A/N: As this is the first chapter-fic for _Titanic_ I have ever written, I feel I must go into a rather lengthy author's note. You may skip it if you wish, but it may help you to understand the fic a little bit better. Perhaps not; I leave it to you to decide.

First off, I have been writing this fic since the summer of 2008. School got in the way after that and demanded I devote all my time and energy to it, so there was very little time for this left. I think I got through sixteen chapters before school, and what remains after that was done when I actually had a free moment. And, of course, I've gone back and changed a few things that just didn't work.

I think you would probably like a decent summary of this fic, but please let me explain parts of it before you make a snap judgment: This fic concerns a girl named Angie Marshall who fell in love with Jack. BUT, it is the unrequited love that so many of us poor girls are more than familiar with. There is in no way any chance of Jack returning these feelings, so don't worry about a Jack/OC. Or any pairing concerning my OC and a main character, for that matter. I don't want this to be a romantic fic, and if it is, it was not my intention. Yes, Angie does get on the _Titanic_; I really hope that won't turn you away immediately. Please give this a chance; if you don't like it after a few chapters, you certainly don't have to keep reading.

I have assimilated every fact I can about _Titanic_ and worked them into the story. You will see many, many historical figures and I am more than happy to explain who they are if you don't know. I am also very open to constructive criticism; remember, I can only improve through advice.

You are probably thinking now, "Watch this girl be a Mary-Sue." I was horrified of that myself. But I can assure you that I took the Mary-Sue Litmus Test on **Bohemian Anne**'s website and discovered that Angie is actually _not a Mary-Sue_. Which of course thrilled me to no end, because I'm always terrified of writing Sues. However, if you find any of her qualities somewhat Sueish, _don't hesitate to tell me._

Now, a note on the title. If you remember the church scene in the movie, they sing "Eternal Father, Strong to Save," and one verse mentions, "….save all who dare the eagle's flight." I found that very interesting and, naturally, very fitting for the Ship of Dreams; it was as if it was a plea for God to save all of those who ventured aboard the _Titanic_. I felt that it was a very fitting title for this story.

And now, finally, we move to the story itself. The first chapter is a short introduction; none of the characters really show up here. I'll have the second chapter up tomorrow, if I can. I adore reviews, especially considering I value your opinion on my writing that I know needs improvement. And not just those little one-liners that always demand an update; that doesn't help me at all. Sorry, but it doesn't. Flames will be used to warm up my arctic house.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic_; I only own Angie and a few small characters you don't recognize.

_O Spirit, whom the Father sent_

_To spread across the firmament_

_O wind of heaven, by Thy might_

_Save all who dare the eagle's flight_

* * *

December 16th, 1939

I have just read the newspapers this morning; Patrick O'Keefe died. I can't believe it; he was only forty-nine, a few years older than me. I remember him very well; he was an Irishman who had been on my lifeboat. He's the second of our boat to have died so far; the colonel was the first. But I'm rambling. I came here to write, and there's no telling how much time I'll have before I'm discovered bent over a notebook in the attic, looking over the newspaper articles I've collected since 1912. My children have no idea what I've gone through and my husband has respected my wishes to not discuss the _Titanic_ if at all possible.

They called it the Ship of Dreams. It certainly was the Ship of Dreams; I had nightmares about the _Titanic_ for years after just barely escaping in a lifeboat. I hardly ever spoke of it after the _Carpathia_, and even then it was only to the survivors. My husband and I have talked about it quietly, but we abstained from doing so ever since the first lightning storm that brought our oldest running to our room. Children tend to leave little room for esoteric conversations.

_Titanic_ was and is not something taken lightly. There are those who can recall the events of a war they fought in or an automobile accident they were injured in easily enough. I am not so fortunate. Some survivors have no issues with recalling all that they saw that horrible, fateful night. Others, like myself, refuse to speak about it. I speak of it only now because I feel that it is time I remove one last burden before my time comes to join all my friends who perished in the icy waters; if Patrick can die before he was fifty, who's to say I won't as well? I have kept this in my heart for far too long, only allowing occasional recollections with my husband and close friends, but now it is time to let my hand tell the story of the longest night I have ever endured.

There were many who died that night, many whom I had come to know and love. All of these people died because of one chunk of ice. Because of the foolishness and arrogance of the White Star Line and the press, which has become considerably more corrupt since 1912; they are eager to report every battle in Europe, egging America into joining the throng. I dedicate this memoir to the memories of all who lost their lives on April 15th, 1912, and to any survivors who might have died since then; may they rest in peace.

Although this memoir primarily concerns the Night to Remember, my story really starts with one man. He was the man who, however inadvertently, led me to the _Titanic_. He was the first man I fell in love with and the only one who never knew. His name was Jack Dawson.


	2. Jack and Fabrizio

A/N: I promised to put up a second chapter today, so here it is, posted during a studying break! This is the actual story, but I wouldn't say this is where the story really _begins_. If that makes _any_ sense to you; things always sound wonderful in my head and then it turns out they don't sound so great when I'm actually saying them. Jack and Fabrizio show up here, at any rate. I apologize if the pace seems too fast; something just doesn't seem to feel right to me, no matter how many times I rewrite it.

I would like to take this time to thank **Nadine Dawson, hippogriff-tamer, Gaslight** and **Yuki Sakura-chan** for reviewing last chapter; your reviews are always appreciated!

* * *

He plucked me off of the street when I was thirteen years old. I was scrawny, starving, poor and prepared to do whatever necessary to survive. I had been hungry for as long as I could remember. I couldn't even remember my old house in Pacific Grove. All I knew was that I had been hungry for so long that I had become scrawny, and I was so scrawny that the dirty men in the streets didn't even try to grab my skirts and throw them up in the air; they thought I was eight years old.

Before I met Jack, I hardly even knew who I was. All I had was a name: Angelica Marshall. I didn't remember my middle name. I just barely remembered my age. Before I met Jack, I had several run-ins with a policeman. I was a dirty, scraggly child on his beat and he didn't like having orphans wandering around. Was I an orphan? I couldn't even remember. He threatened to take me to the local orphanage five different times. One of my few lucky streaks prevented me from having to go to an orphanage.

Who knows? The orphanage might have been a better option for me. I might have had clean clothes and a full belly and no bugs crawling around in my hair. I might not have had to sleep in garbage or with stray dogs that were only snatched by the dog-catcher the next day. I could have been adopted and had something like a family again. But if I had gone to an orphanage, I never would have met Jack Dawson, and I certainly wouldn't be where I am today.

As I said, I was thirteen when he found me. I was sitting on a stoop and the family's dark-skinned maid was shooing me away with her broom when he saw me. He was the most handsome thing I had ever looked at. At seventeen years old, he stood tall and lanky, blond hair falling into his beautiful blue eyes. I think my breath caught in my throat at the sight of him. I remember feeling ashamed that I was in rags; if I had looked a little closer that day, I would have noticed that he was in rags too.

"I'm guessin' you don't live there, huh?"

It was with those words that I fell under his spell. Obviously, I was not very difficult to impress.

"No," I said hoarsely; I didn't use my voice often.

He nodded then and pulled something out of his pockets. "I got a few dimes. You wanna eat somethin'?"

I nodded and followed him to a diner. I ate all of my food so quickly that I almost heaved it right back up. I was falling more and more in love with this fella, and for stupid reasons. All we did was talk about who we were and how miserable our lives were, but that was enough.

"My name's Jack Dawson, by the way," he had said, after ordering our meals. "What's yours?"

I swallowed a sip of water, knowing my voice would be hoarse and scratchy. "Angelica Marshall."

Jack nodded slowly. "Angelica. That's a nice name."

I shook my head. "I don't think it fits me."

Jack smiled then. To this day, I remember how my heart thudded as he smiled like that at me. "Well, how 'bout Angie? D'you mind that name?"

I shook my head. A silence stretched between us then. I knew I should have been the one to break it, to ask him something, but my mind was still reeling that this kind, handsome stranger was buying me lunch. Finally, Jack broke it. "How old are you, Angie?"

I was quiet for a moment. How old _was_ I? "Thirteen. I think."

Jack nodded again. "I'm seventeen."

He didn't look seventeen to me. He looked twenty. There were faded memories of princes in fairy tales, but I could hardly remember those. The closest thing to what Jack reminded me of was an angel. I had been in church before. There was a small parish that let my kind wander in off the streets. They spoke of angels and of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. I wasn't too sure about the Holy Trinity, the Three in One, but I did know that he reminded me of an angel.

Our meals came then. I ate quickly, unable to savor the taste of food. I had never savored food before in my life. An irrational part of me was afraid that Jack would suddenly take my food away from me, so I ate as fast as I could. I stopped a few minutes later, feeling sick. The food was churning unpleasantly in my stomach, making my insides convulse. I put both hands on the table and lowered my head, gulping down nothing.

Jack saw me. "Hey, slow down there," he had said gently. "You'll make yourself sick if ya eat too fast."

Finally, the spell had passed. I raised my head and drank from my water, finding the sensation of ice against my lips odd. I ate my food slower, chewing it thoroughly before swallowing.

"You don't eat much, huh?" Jack stated rather than asked.

I shook my head.

Jack nodded again. "I know what it's like. My folks died about two years ago. I was homeless and hungry until I came to Monterey." He was quiet for a minute. "Where are you from, Angie?"

I shrugged. "Pacific Grove, I think."

"I'm from Chippewa Falls. It's in Wisconsin," Jack offered.

I looked up then. "That's a long way from Monterey, isn't it?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, I guess so."

"What did you do in Monterey?"

"I worked on a squid boat there. But it wasn't for me. I'm heading down to Los Angeles. I hear there's more to do there," he said calmly.

I toyed with my napkin. "Why did you buy me lunch?"

Jack shrugged. "I guess…because I felt bad for ya. I used to be just like ya. I would've killed for a free lunch back then."

It was things he said like this that made me fall in love with him. He had been just like me once, and now he was helping me. He was…looking out for me, if only for a short while.

"Thank you," I said quietly. And then he ordered some apple pie.

* * *

Somehow, we never parted after that lunch. We snuck onto a train with an old man named Bart. The train took us just less than two miles from Santa Monica, where Jack was aiming to go. There was a bridge in walking distance from the pier there that we slept under for a few weeks. Jack was an artist, and he sold his paintings for ten cents apiece. I sold tickets, and together, we earned enough to stay in a dingy hotel with one bed. We alternated; I would sleep on the bed one night while he slept on the floor, and then I would sleep on the floor the next night while he took the bed. There were many times I wanted to crawl into bed beside him, to feel the warmth of his being comfort me, but I never did.

On Jack's eighteenth birthday, I gave him five dollars that I had saved up. He told me that he was getting bored of Santa Monica and that we should go somewhere else. I had never left California in all my life, but Jack was a worldly man, having traveled all the way from Wisconsin to California. I was expecting us to wander a few states over, _maybe_ even to Chicago or New York. But we went all the way to England on a small ocean liner and then we took a tramp steamer to Italy. In Italy, Jack showed me the Sistine Chapel. He was fascinated by it; he spent hours gazing up at the piece of art. I did too. It gave me a neck-ache, but it was beautiful. Beautiful like Jack. It was when we were leaving the Sistine Chapel that our lives changed, if only a little bit.

"The market's not far from here; we could…get something," Jack said lightly.

"All right, but it's your turn," I replied warningly. "I nearly got caught last time."

"Butterfingers," Jack teased, tugging my pathetic excuse for a braid.

The next part was very confusing. I could not and still do not speak Italian; therefore, I wasn't entirely sure of who was shouting and what they were shouting and why they were shouting. As a young man sprinted into view, however, with several uniformed men on his tail, I had a pretty good feeling that they were shouting, "Stop! Thief!" Or something to that effect.

"Angie, over here!" Jack said quite suddenly, tugging on my arm. Honestly, I have no idea where we were; it was a labyrinth and only Jack had a vague idea of what was going on. I guess the street the Italian thief was running down came our way, because we heard him coming a few minutes later. Jack, with expert timing, reached out and yanked the Italian into the alley we were standing in.

"_Bastardo_!" the man shouted. He was more of a boy, really.

"Shh!" Jack hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth. The police ran right by us. After we couldn't hear them anymore, Jack took his hand off of the boy's mouth.

"Ah; thank you," he said in a considerably more cheerful tone of voice. He extended his hand so quickly that it startled me. "Fabrizio de Rossi!"

"Jack Dawson."

"Hello!" I had a feeling that Fabrizio could not say much in English, especially since his accent was so thick that he was nigh impossible to understand, but I was grateful he wasn't spewing out Italian like everyone else.

"Angie Marshall," I said, extending my hand. Fabrizio de Rossi, instead of shaking my hand, took it and kissed it. He was the first person who had ever done that to me and it left a funny sort of tingling. I was liking him already. We beamed at one another and I knew that we just _had_ to bring him with us. I was prepared to whine to Jack like a child wanting a puppy. But Jack smiled at Fabrizio as well.

"Speak good English, Fabrizio?"

Fabrizio shrugged. "Ah…_poco_. A leetle."

Jack nodded. "Good. Come with us?"

I don't think Fabrizio understood the actual words, but he knew the gist of what we were saying, for he nodded enthusiastically. "_Sì! Sì!"_

And so Fabrizio de Rossi joined us. His English was bad, but it was better than our Italian. He picked up little phrases Jack and I used quite easily; within a week, he could say, "please," "thank you," "what the hell is your problem" and "I swear, it wasn't me!" Early in the mornings, I would teach him what English I could until Jack announced that "it was time." That meant it was time for us to find food, and not always in an honest way.

We had a whole system worked out; I, being so scrawny that I looked nine or ten instead of fourteen, would stand to the side and wait for Jack's signal. He was more conspicuous as a tall, blond white man than either Fabrizio or I. When Jack decided on a stall, I would stumble towards the vendor, crying. Or something close to crying.

"H-have you s-seen my m-m-mama?" I would sob piteously.

The vendors very rarely spoke English, and so I would babble in English while he babbled in Italian, trying to understand me. In truth, Fabrizio was teaching me some Italian, and while I pretty well knew what the men kept asking, I maintained a confused, tearful face. Meanwhile, Fabrizio was lurking in the crowd nearby. While the vendors were busy trying to help me, Fabrizio would slip what we needed into his jacket. Jack always had a rule; take _only what we need_. We did this to survive, not for sport.

"I don't understand you!" I would insist as Fabrizio took what we needed, all without catching the vendor's eye. Customers saw a wailing child and quickly moved away, not wanting to deal with the raggedy American girl who was vexing the poor vendor immensely. Having taken what we needed, Fabrizio would slip away to the bridge we slept under. Jack would usually come a few moments later, speaking in botched Italian to the vendor and explaining that I was his sister and that I had gotten lost. Then he would steer me away and we would sprint to the bridge, dining on stolen bread or fruit.

This isn't to say that we were successful every single time. We had plenty of close shaves and we were nearly caught on a number of occasions. One time a beady-eyed vendor caught sight of Fabrizio and whirled around. A long argument ensued, in which I am pretty sure Fabrizio claimed he was only _looking_ at the apples, not taking. I took this as my opportunity to stuff my own jacket with apples and dart away. Fabrizio finally managed to get away and was muttering a number of obscenities that he had taught me.

There was one time when the vendor caught both Fabrizio _and_ me. He saw Fabrizio and turned, and when I was reaching for an apple he whirled around and snatched my wrist. I _really_ cried then, but this time, the vendor had no sympathy for me. He shouted something that I think meant police. I was fully expecting Fabrizio to dart away and save himself while he could, but he came around the side and shouted at the vendor, tugging on my other arm as if the vendor would release me. Of course he didn't, so both my wrists were starting to hurt before long.

"_Ma vaffanculo!"_ Fabrizio was shouting. "_Figlio di puttana!" _Some women nearby gasped; obviously, he had said some very, very naughty words that he hadn't even taught me yet. This made the vendor so angry that he released his grip on me to backhand Fabrizio. I was such an idiot, standing stock-still and not quite sure what to do.

"Angie, _run_!" Jack, who came out of nowhere, shouted in my ear. And like magic, I turned around and ran as fast as I could to the bridge. Jack and Fabrizio followed a few minutes later. Fabrizio had a small trickle of blood running out of his nose, and his cheek showed signs of a bruise, but he seemed otherwise fine.

"I'm so sorry," was all I could say for several hours. Jack swore that he wasn't mad at me, it could've happened to anyone, and Fabrizio kept reassuring me that he had been in worse scrapes. He didn't use that wording, but I knew what he meant. Later on in the day, Jack scrounged up the money he had made from his paintings to see if he could buy some food. Fabrizio used his absence to his full advantage.

"You and-a Jack; you have…_amore_, no?"

_Amore_, I knew, meant love. Everyone who came to Italy did. I shook my head vigorously. "No, no; we…are friends. No _amore_."

"No _amore_?" Fabrizio asked, looking almost disappointed.

I was sorely tempted to tell Fabrizio that _I_ loved Jack; after all, I could trust Fabrizio enough to know that he wouldn't tell Jack. But I would have to put far more time and energy into explaining it to him, and I really didn't think I could. So I settled for "no _amore_."

* * *

After less than three months in Italy, we convinced a man named Paulo to let us ride in the back of his wagon to France. It was on this trip that I whined and pleaded until Fabrizio caved in and told me just what _ma vaffanculo_ and _figlio di puttana _meant. I laughed until my sides hurt while Paulo grunted indignantly. I decided to keep those in mind and use them when we were away from Italians.

It took us over a week to get to Paris, but get there we did. It was beautiful. And it was full of art. Jack acted like a boy on Christmas, shouting excitedly for Fabrizio and me to look at this painting or that sculpture and did we see how the artist used the colors here? I didn't always see, but I pretended I did to please Jack. In Paris, Jack drew his ten-cent portraits and made a lot of money off of them. Sometimes he would disappear at night to the brothels; he claimed that some of the women there were perfect models. He had drawn me before, but I was fully-clothed and staring at something only remotely interesting.

Fabrizio found a job as a waiter. He had a way of convincing the customers to take the finest food and wine, thus earning him the favor of his employer. As for myself, I worked as a maid in a hotel generally used by Americans. They were glad to see a native of their home country, even if I was beneath them. Together, the three of us saved up enough for a hotel room with two beds; I slept on one and the boys slept on the other. It was mostly Fabrizio and I who brought in the money; Jack's drawings weren't as popular in Paris as they had been in Santa Monica. A few Americans bought them, but not many.

It was at the hotel I worked at in Paris that I met Yves. Yves was a Frenchman by birth who was fluent in English. He was in charge of the lifts, two years older than me and rather attractive. I still had not stopped caring for Jack; I still clung to the hope that someday he would realize that we were meant to be. But in the meantime, I figured that I could have some fun.

I liked to take the lifts, just so I could talk to Yves. I was young when I knew him; therefore, I was silly. Looking back, I turn red with embarrassment when I remember how hard I laughed at his little jokes, how I wore a stupid, idiotic grin whenever I was around him. I found myself glancing in every possible reflective surface before I went onto the lifts so that I would look as nice as possible. And I took the lifts quite often.

Yves took to walking me places. Walking me to the street corner, walking me down the block, walking me to the hotel I stayed in, walking me all the way to my room. I never let him inside; I didn't want to give him the wrong idea. And by wrong idea, I mean the fact that two other men around his age were living with me and we all three slept in the same room. That might have discouraged any interest he had in me.

One morning I woke up to Jack and Fabrizio standing over me.

"Wake up, Rip Van Winkle!" Jack bellowed, grinning. Normally, this sight would have made my heart flutter. Instead, I remembered that my hair was tangled and disheveled and my mouth was open while I slept and I generally did not look very pleasant. "Come on; get up! It's your fifteenth birthday!"

"It is? How do you know that?" I asked, slowly rising and scratching the back of my head.

"Well, we decided that it is," Jack conceded, shrugging. "Partly because too much time has passed since I first met you and now. But mostly because we have enough money to take you out for a birthday dinner now. So tonight, we're goin' to that _Les Augustine_ place."

_Les Augustine_ was a nice bar. It was the kind of place young cads take naïve girls who don't have a terribly large inheritance before they whisk them off to a hotel and never speak to them again after that night. Naturally, it was a rather nice place, considering who the three of us were.

"I a-make you a cake a-today!" Fabrizio promised, beaming at the prospect of celebrating a day that probably wasn't even my birthday. "You a-come to my _ristorante_ today for lunch, okay?"

"All right," I agreed, trying to smile even while I yawned.

I couldn't help but announce my sudden birthday to Yves that day. After I had answered a summons from the concierge and directed a haughty-looking woman with a voluminous bosom towards a fashionable café, I all but skipped over to the lifts. It was empty, save for Yves, who smiled as I entered.

"Good afternoon, miss," he said, tipping his hat as he closed the doors.

"Sir," I replied airily. After three seconds of silence, I couldn't take it anymore. "Today is my birthday."

Yves cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? Really? You didn't tell me before."

"I forgot," I said, shrugging. It was better than telling him I just now found out. "My friends are taking me to _Les Augustine_ for dinner."

Yves nodded. "That's a nice place."

"Very," I agreed, trying not to grin.

"How old are you?"

"Um…fifteen." Was that too young for him? I had never disclosed my age to him before; perhaps he wouldn't be so flirtatious now.

"Well, _bon anniversaire_, Angie," Yves said warmly as the lift came to a halt. He opened the doors for me, and as I was about to leave, he stopped me and took my hand. "And many happy returns." And with that, he kissed my hand, only the second person to have done so.

I blushed crimson, I'm sure of it, and mumbled what I _think_ was a thank-you. The moment my hand was out of his grasp, I walked quickly down the corridor, my skirts swishing violently.

When I was finally allowed to leave the hotel and scurry over to _Les Augustine_, I was tired but ecstatic. Jack and Fabrizio had promised me drinks and presents at lunch, and I was not about to be late for that. I nearly slipped on the snow but plodded on, eager to get to warmth, beer and my surprise presents. Finally, I made it to _Les Augustine_. I pushed open the door and nearly gasped with the warmth that overcame me. I pushed the door further and stumbled in, brushing snowflakes off of me. Jack and Fabrizio flagged me down from a table in the corner where they were nursing two beers.

"Is that how you come dressed for your birthday dinner?" Jack teased as I took off my coat.

"Excuse me, but I don't have all day to change clothes at my leisure," I teased back, taking a swig of his beer.

I had just sipped the froth off of my own beer when Fabrizio nudged me. "He looks a-lost."

"Who?" I asked rhetorically, looking around in the direction Fabrizio was staring at. My mouth fell open. It was Yves. "Oh, God," I muttered, turning around quickly and ducking my head.

"What?" Jack and Fabrizio asked at the same time.

"It's, it's someone I work with," I tried to explain. "He…he's…"

"Angie!"

I plastered a huge smile on my face and turned around. I liked Yves and all; I just wasn't prepared for, well, this.

"Yves!" I returned as he made his way towards us. He smiled uncertainly at Jack and Fabrizio. I didn't want to introduce them, but I had to. It would be quite awkward otherwise. "Oh, Yves, this is Jack and Fabrizio. Fellas, this is Yves. He works at the hotel with me."

They all shook hands in that maddeningly masculine way before Jack and Fabrizio sat back down.

"Wanna join us?" Jack asked, shouting as some rather loud music started up.

"Oh, no, thank you," Yves shouted back. "I just…my sister's husband works here…and…well, _au revoir_!"

And just like that, he was gone. I sank back into my seat.

"What the hell was _that_ all about?" Jack asked, sounding stunned.

I grinned sheepishly. "Um…I don't know?"

Suddenly Jack smirked. "Uh-oh, Fabri; it looks like our little Angie's found herself a sweetheart."

"What?" Fabrizio asked, sounding very confused.

"He's just being stupid, Fabri," I snapped, flushing red.

"Never mind that," Jack shouted, pulling something out of his pocket. He pulled a stack of cards out of a small carton and began to shuffle them. "Tonight, we're gonna teach you how to play blackjack."

"Why?" I asked, curious. I didn't even know that Fabrizio knew how to play cards, let alone an American game like blackjack. Or was blackjack even American?

"Because it'll impress your little Evie," Jack replied smoothly, not missing a beat.

"It's _Yves_—oh, _ma vaffanculo_!" I snapped.

Fabrizio roared with laughter.


	3. Au Revoir to the City of l'Amore

* * *

A/N: Hello again, my lovely readers! I forgot to tell you last chapter, but my general plan is to update this fic once a week every Monday, with only a few deviations from that schedule planned. Now, to address a few things.

A note on accents: I am perfectly aware the accents look cheesy. However, I felt that no accent at all just didn't do the speakers justice, and so I have incorporated cheesy Italian and French accents. They're better than plain speech, though.

A note on card games: I have never played blackjack or poker. I used to play War when I was little, but I forgot how. The extent of my card-knowledge lies with computer-solitaire. I've seen the movie _21_ several times, but I comprehended absolutely nothing from it.

A note on Yves: I was actually extremely surprised by the reactions he received. Personally, I was quite pleasantly surprised that so many of you took an interest in him! Unfortunately, Yves does not last long. He's a phase of Angie's life, one that I'm sure most awkward girls can identify with.

A note that has no particular category: I've discovered some of the "Back to Titanic" soundtrack on YouTube, and the "Jack Dawson's Luck" piece is probably the most appropriate music possible for him. It also fits in rather nicely with this fic, by-the-by.

A HUGE thank-you to **hippogriff-tamer, Nadine Dawson** and **Gaslight** for reviewing last chapter; your support truly means a lot to me! I suppose a thank-you _should_, by rights, go to all of those mysterious lurkers who read but don't review, but I won't deny that I'd feel a thousand times kinder towards you if you dropped a line once in awhile. Remember: I only improve with feedback!

* * *

"Bust!" Jack groaned, running a hand through his blond hair. "I never should've taught you this game."

Jack and Fabrizio had taught me how to play blackjack two hours ago; now, they were starting to regret it. Four other men had joined our table, and not one of them spoke proper English. I think they had learned their limited English by playing cards, because they had babbled enthusiastically when we said "blackjack" and they kept saying, "Hit me!" and "Bust!" They understood "beer," too, but when I asked them where they learned English, they stared at me and muttered to one another.

"That's it, I quit," Jack declared, standing up and taking a swig of beer. Then he turned to me, setting his beer heavily down on the table. "You wanna dance?"

"Sure," I replied, raising my voice as the band struck up a loud tune. He held out a hand and pulled me to the dance floor. I realized then that I didn't know any dance steps. I had never danced like this before; just swayed or tapped my foot in time to music. "I don't know the steps, Jack!"

"I'm leadin', aren't I?" he replied impishly.

"But, you're not dancing like all the others," I pointed out frantically, realizing we weren't following the steps the young cads and their tipsy ladies were dancing. We were just…moving, haphazardly, spinning and whirling and leaping and bounding. We were also attracting attention.

"So?" was Jack's careless answer before he dipped me quite suddenly. I let out a little shriek at nearly falling and elicited laughs from our card-mates.

Before I knew it, a whole bunch of them had pulled girls from seemingly nowhere onto the dance floor and were joining us in a dance without steps. I laughed at the sight of the stricken-looking cads and the stunned ladies. As Jack whirled me past a pretty little blonde, she asked her beau in a whiny voice, "Why won't you spin me like _that_?"

As the night progressed, I was passed from one man to another, allowing them to lead and laughing whenever we nearly rammed into another couple. About fifteen hands held my waist that night, held my sweaty hand with their own. I lost track of who I was dancing with, so caught up was I in the blend of noise and lights and a thousand sensations hitting me at once. I always knew when I was dancing with Jack, though. I always beamed at him and held onto his right arm and left hand a little tighter than the other men. I pressed a little closer and I felt weightless in his arms. My tired feet stopped aching when I danced with him.

When I woke up the next morning, I had my first ever hangover. And boy, did I hate it. I slept well into the morning. When I woke up, it was two o'clock in the afternoon. My bleary eyes glanced at the clock before fluttering shut. They widened, however, when the time actually registered with me.

"Oh, God!" I shrieked, sitting up straight in bed. This was a mistake. I felt as if sharp knives had thrust themselves into my head and I wasn't dead yet. I cried out, which hurt, and clutched my head. I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes and whimpered. When the shooting pains had gone away, I finally blinked and looked around. The room was empty. Stupid boys, being able to get over their hangovers; they had had _lots _more to drink than I had. I still had six hours left of my shift…I flopped back onto the bed and rolled away from the window. I couldn't work like this. I just _couldn't_.

When I woke up I didn't know how much later, Jack was sitting on his bed. His arms were resting against his knees, his elbows hanging off of his thighs casually. He grinned as I slowly sat up in bed. "I didn't think you were gonna wake up."

"How long have you been there?" I yawned, wincing.

"Ten minutes, give or take. You know, Ang, you should have gone to work a few hours ago."

"I know that," I snapped feebly, unable to say much more. "What time is it now?"

"Three-thirty."

I groaned. "Jack, can you please, please, _please_ tell my boss, Mr. Becker, that I'm sick and I can't come into work today?"

"I think he figured that out by now," Jack laughed.

"Please? Just tell him I'm sick and that's why I didn't come in."

Jack nodded. "Okay. Do you want me to get you something? Coffee?"

"Uh-huh," I nodded, sinking back into the comfortable cocoon of blankets. I drifted off a few minutes after the door had closed carefully behind him. I knew I was getting better, because I heard him open the door roughly thirty minutes later and I woke up fully. The coffee was nice; I think he got it from the restaurant Fabrizio worked at. "Jack, why aren't you sick in your bed like I am? And Fabrizio, too?"

Jack smirked. "We can hold our liquor better than you, 'specially Fabri. You ever tasted the Italian stuff? It tastes like vinegar."

"Ugh."

He was quiet for a minute. When he finally spoke, there was no playfulness in his voice. "Angie, me and Fabrizio have been talking, and, well…we think that maybe…it's time for us to leave France."

I stared at him. "When did you talk about this?"

Jack fidgeted with his own cup of coffee. "Um…while you were asleep."

"But, why?" I wasn't getting it. At all. Jack had gone on and on about the beauty of Paris and its art and all that, and now…he wanted to leave.

"Well, Ang, think about it. You and Fabrizio are working _all_ the time for crappy money. Last night was the first time in a long time that the three of us just _lived_. We came to France to _enjoy_ the stuff here, not to be slaves," Jack said passionately.

And you know, he was right. Jack had gone on and on about how much fun Paris would be, and I hadn't had any real fun since last night. And let me tell you, I had had a lot more fun in Italy. Those people knew how to _live_. And yeah, there were some Parisians who did, too, but I hadn't met them yet. I took another sip from my coffee. "When do you want to leave?"

"Now."

I raised an eyebrow. "That'll work nicely."

Jack chuckled. "As soon as you and Fabrizio can get away from work."

I set down my now-empty cup of coffee. "Okay. I'll tell Mr. Becker tomorrow."

True enough, the next morning, I walked into work nervously, my stomach in knots and my hands fidgeting with my apron. Mr. Becker was a born-and-raised American who had a flair for business. His wife, Sophie, was a French citizen, and from what the maids who had been at the hotel longer than I had said, she had missed her mother frequently and they had made constant visits to Paris. So often, in fact, that he finally built a hotel here for other Americans so that Sophie would be closer to her mother. When I walked inside, Mr. Becker was talking with Jean at the front desk. He spotted me and made a stopping motion with his hand. He finished up his business with Jean and approached me, straightening his tie. "Ah, Angelica! I see you're feeling better."

"Yes sir, Mr. Becker," I replied cheerily.

"Your brother told me you were feeling very unwell…he said it was most unusual for you but that you would be out and about in no time," Mr. Becker said kindly.

I stifled a snigger; it was hard to imagine Jack as my brother. "Well, he was right. I'm feeling much better now."

"Good, good. I should hate for you to be out for a whole day in the future!" Mr. Becker chuckled.

I fidgeted with some lace on the cuff of my sleeve. "Um…about that, sir."

Becker's smile faded a little. "Oh?"

I took a deep breath. "Well, sir, my…brother…and I were talking, and well…sir, we're planning on leaving Paris soon."

Becker rubbed his chin. "I see. When are you planning on leaving, Angelica?"

I didn't bother to point out that literally no one called me Angelica. "Um…as soon as possible. We have a friend who's coming with us, and part of it'll depend on him, too."

Mr. Becker nodded. "All right. How about this; you stay on for two more weeks, and then I'll pay you the rest of the month's salary."

"Thank you very much, sir," I said, meaning it.

He nodded, smiling. "I'll hate to see you go, Angelica. You've been an excellent worker."

I decided not to point out that this was the first time we were having a conversation in which he was not instructing me how the guests were to be treated; therefore, I highly doubted he would truly be sorry to see me go. After all, even his wife, who oversaw the maids, called me Angie. Nevertheless, I smiled and headed to the lifts.

"You're really leaving?" Yves asked, sounding somewhat disconcerted.

I nodded, looking down at my shoes. "Yes."

Silence.

"When?"

I sighed. "Two weeks."

Yves fell silent. "That's—"

We came to the fifth floor, my destination, and a richly-attired woman carrying a small dog stepped in. I gave a small smile to Yves before slipping out and going down the hall. I heard the woman haughtily ordering Yves to take her down before I found Lucy and helped her clean a room.

When my two o'clock lunch break came, I braved the icy streets, caught a bus and went to Fabrizio's restaurant. Like two nights before, the warmth of the room enveloped me at once. I was assaulted by a myriad of smells that made my mouth water. I sighed happily, content just to stand there for a few moments. Unfortunately, I wasn't allowed to. A seating host asked me something in French. I should probably point out that despite the fact that we had been in Paris for quite some time, I still couldn't speak French. I worked with English-speakers all day long and I went home to Jack and Fabrizio at night.

"Um, sorry?" I asked apologetically.

A flicker of something sneer-like flickered in the host's eyes; obviously he, like many other Parisians, intensely disliked Americans. But a pleasant smile graced his face a moment later and he asked cordially, "May I 'elp you, _mademoiselle_?"

"Um, yes, I'm looking for my friend, Fabrizio de Rossi?"

"Oh, _oui_, 'e ees een ze back wiz a friend." The host pointed to a corner where, sure enough, Jack and Fabrizio were leaning back in their chairs, a bottle of wine in front of them both. I thanked the host and made my way over to them. There was hardly anyone there; only a few ladies finishing up their desserts and most likely waiting for the bill to come.

"Holy cow, Angie, what are you doing here?" Jack asked in surprise as I flung my coat over the back of a chair at their table.

"What is a-this cow with holes?" Fabrizio asked.

"It's an expression of surprise," I replied, flopping into the seat unceremoniously. "My boss is giving me two more weeks."

"My a-boss too!" Fabrizio declared, pouring me some wine.

"So…two weeks. Then where?" I asked no one in particular, taking a sip from my wine.

Jack shrugged as Fabrizio reached over and took a plate from the other table. He pushed it in front of me; it had some hardly-touched chicken and half of a bun. I dug in hungrily.

"Not France, that's for sure. We could go to Belgium, Germany or Switzerland. Or even back to Italy," Jack said, ticking off the countries on his fingers. "Oh, and there's Spain."

"Spain sounds nice," I said through a mouth full of chicken. "It's gotta be warmer."

"How 'bout it, Fabri? You wanna go to Spain?" Jack asked, swigging his wine.

"_Sì_! I have a-never been!"

"Spain it is," Jack decided, stealing a glass of champagne from another nearby table. He winced. "Ugh; flat."

* * *

The two weeks passed surprisingly slowly. I'm sure it was because I wanted to be _out_ so badly. Looking back, I think that the only thing I truly liked about my life—if you could call it that—in Paris was Yves, and I could easily go on without him.

The night before we left, the three of us went to _Les Augustine_ for the second and last time. I was back in the clothes I had worn coming into Paris, having turned in my uniform earlier that day. It felt strange but oddly nice to sit at a table, cradling a beer and not having to worry about getting up at six to go to work the next morning. Happiness overcame exhaustion and soon Jack and Fabrizio were teaching me the finer points of poker, which was considerably more difficult than blackjack.

I was just about to scream in frustration when a voice said something behind me. I didn't understand him, but I knew it was Yves. I nearly slopped beer all over myself and the cards as I turned around. I beamed; the beer had made any anxiety I might have felt ebb away. "Yves! What are you doing here?"

He shrugged, smiling. "You said you were probably coming here tonight, so…I came to say a proper goodbye."

I felt Fabrizio snigger beside me. I say felt because we had been joined by five other men and we were rather packed. I stepped on his foot subtly while continuing to smile. "Fellas, can't we make some more room?"

It was a miracle, but we made room for Yves, who didn't know how to play poker at all. I had thought I was terrible, but Yves…well, he didn't know a jack from an ace. The others were starting to get somewhat frustrated, so I asked Yves for a dance.

"I'm terrible," he said the minute his hand had found my waist and our free hands met.

"No, you're not," I lied, pulling him into the rhythm that I danced to with Jack and Fabrizio and the other boys.

He laughed. "You're lying. It's all right. I don't think I'll have to play poker anymore. What is this dance, anyway? I've been letting you lead."

I giggled at this. "Honestly…I don't know! You just…dance!"

"Um…all right," Yves said uncertainly, watching his feet awkwardly try to move.

"It's fun!" I encouraged, turning us around in a circle.

"If you say so," Yves said half-heartedly.

A few minutes later, Fabrizio cut in, trying to show Yves how to do it. I'm not quite sure Yves really got the hang of it, but he assured me that he was having fun. _I_ certainly was. The blackjack players from a couple weeks previous recognized us and joined us. I was asked to dance again, which I suspect is because of the scarcity of girls there, and while I tried to spend lots of time with Yves, I couldn't help but be pulled into the flow of the music. It's hard to explain, this addiction to a beat, but it made sense to me, and it still does.

Jack said that it's people like us who feel this passion for music. He said that us travelers, the people who drift and wander all over the world without a destination…we feel this passion. That we're as free and flowing as the music, that we love it so much because it speaks to our souls. He said that some people can't feel the passion. They only know a beat because it's been ingrained into their minds to dance or to enjoy "good" music that makes you want to fall asleep. These are the people that stay planted in one place, if they can. They don't like to drift and wander and so the music doesn't invoke the passion in them. It's the kind of thing that should sound like horseshit, but somehow, it doesn't.

As the evening began to wind down, I convinced Yves to dance a slow one with me. He looked much more at ease now than he had earlier. I fleetingly remembered what Jack had said about the passion for music and what it said about people. Yves was probably one of those people who wanted to stay in one place. It wasn't a bad thing…was it? I had known planted down people in Santa Monica, and they weren't all bad. I decided to stop thinking about stupid things like that and I instead turned my attention to Yves.

"I'll miss having you around," he said after a few minutes of idle chatter.

I fought off a blush as I smiled. "I'll miss you too." Inwardly, I berated myself for sounding like such an idiot. I wanted him to remember me for being pretty and clever and witty; not for saying stupid things as if my head were full of fluff.

"Where will you go after this?"

It was strange; I had never mentioned to Yves where we were going. I suppose it had never come up. "We're heading for Spain. It's supposed to be warmer there."

Yves smiled. "Yes, I suppose it can get cold here. Sometimes I forget; I've never left France. I haven't left Paris since I was fourteen."

"Didn't you ever _want_ to leave, though? To travel Europe? Or even the world?" I pressed.

Yves gave me a strange look. "Why?"

It astounded me that anyone could want to stay in one place their whole life. Surely it couldn't have just been Jack's influence on me? "But, don't you think it's just a little, you know, _boring_ to stay in one place your whole life? Why run the lifts for the rest of your life? Why not work as a sailor and see the world? You could come with us to Spain!"  
I sincerely doubted that Jack and Fabrizio would be overly happy with a new addition, but I also knew that Yves wouldn't come with us. I knew it in my gut and I wasn't surprised when he shook his head. "I can't leave. I…I don't _want_ to. Why couldn't you simply stay here, Angie? Just because your friends are leaving doesn't mean _you_ have to."

Now it was my turn to shake my head. "Yves, Paris is a beautiful city and you've been wonderful to talk to and all…but…this place isn't for me. I want to travel. I'm going to _Spain_, Yves! Really, why don't you want to leave? You could go anywhere you wanted to without having to work for anyone! Make your own luck!"

Yves smiled sadly at my childish enthusiasm. "I can't. I, I love it here. Mr. Becker is a good man. He doesn't have any children, and who knows? Maybe someday I'll run the hotel."

I looked down at my feet then, opting for silence. How could anyone's ambition be to _run a hotel_? That was so, so _boring_. The whole world was out there and I fully intended on seeing it. I hoped this wouldn't be my last trip to Paris. I hoped that someday I'd return, hopefully as Jack's wife or, at the very least, his lover. We could visit the Eiffel Tower and holds hands in the Louvre or see the famed Bastilles…and then cold, hard realization hit me. I was flirting with a boy who I had been stringing along this whole time. I was still infatuated with Jack, and here I was, dancing to what should have been a romantic tune in another man's arms.

"I…I think I want to go home now," I blurted. I felt awful. The liberal amount of beer I had consumed, not to mention the cigarettes I had braved (it was my first time smoking), weren't helping my guilt much, either.

"Are you all right?" Yves asked, concerned.

I nodded, forcing a smile. "I'm fine. Just…I'm a little tired and, and whatnot. Long day ahead of me tomorrow, you know!"

Yves smiled sympathetically. "I'll get your coat," he offered, making his way through the crowd to where only two men were playing cards. He helped me into a coat, ever the gentleman, and shrugged on his own. "I'll escort you there."

He put a chivalrous hand on my back as the cold night air hit us. I shivered and ducked my head from the chilly wind. We caught a cab (I had never ridden in one before, and Yves insisted I should do it once) to the hotel. He paid the driver, waving away my protests, and walked me to my room. Suddenly, I felt sicker. It can't explain it; I just felt an overwhelming amount of emotions that ultimately resulted in nausea.

"Well, this is it," I said rather stupidly as we halted in front of the door.

"Yes." Yves fidgeted his gloves for a moment. "I will miss you very much, Angie."

"And I'll miss you too, Yves." I had wanted to bolt for the door a moment ago; now, I felt a pang of sympathy for him. After the way I had treated him tonight, well, he really deserved a long farewell. And then he surprised me by leaning forward—out of the blue, I swear—and pressing his lips to mine. It was one of those things that I really should have seen coming, but of course, I didn't. His lips were cold from outside and somewhat chapped. And just as suddenly as he had kissed me, he just as quickly pulled away and walked down the hallway rapidly. The minx in me would have stayed outside the door and smiled and waved shyly, because I'm pretty sure he paused on his way down the hall. However, there is little to no minx in me, so I threw open the door and closed it quickly.

I undressed and got into bed after that, eager just to sleep. Of course, I wasn't able to go to sleep; it would have been a miracle if I could. Needless to say, I was awake when the boys stumbled through the door an hour later.

"Whoo! I'm a little—whoopsy!" Jack cackled as Fabrizio fell flat on his face. He tipsily helped him up, laughing so hard that he doubled over.

I propped myself up on my elbow and cocked an eyebrow. "Had fun, did you?"

"Yeah! W-where were you?" Jack asked, trying as hard as he could to steady himself. Bless him.

"I left awhile ago. I was tired." It was partly true.

"With Yves?" Fabrizio asked, laughing. He hiccupped after a moment and giggled. I should tell you that Fabrizio actually _giggled_. Shamelessly. He giggled like a little kid or even a girl sometimes, but I didn't think the less of him for it. It was just…_him._

I felt a smile tug at my lips. "Yes, with Yves."

"He looked outta place, poor fella," Jack noted, plopping down on the bed. He missed his mark and very nearly fell onto the floor.

I sat up fully. "Yeah, well, he was. Fabrizio, that's a vase, not a glass."

Fabrizio giggled and threw himself onto the bed, lying back spread-eagled.

"Did you kiss him? Or did he kiss you?" Now Jack was giggling.

"He kissed me." This sobered the boys up.

"Really?" Jack asked, sounding intrigued, his head weaving drunkenly.

"Yes, really. I'll tell you about it when you're sober," I sighed, rolling over. Within five minutes, the lamp was shut and Jack and Fabrizio's snores filled the room.


	4. Spain

A/N: Hello once again, dear readers! Hope you all are having _fabulous_ Mondays…note the sarcasm. I thought I would tell you all now that I am _so effing glad_ I finished and edited and reedited this fic beforehand, because considering the titanic research paper I'm writing (pun intended), I would never have time to do any of that now. Speaking of my research paper for English, I should probably note that this fic became a dumping ground for my vocabulary words when school started. I'm not trying to make any fellow AP kids groan or anything; it just helps me remember them.

Anyway, onto more important things. In this fic, I am making Jack's birthday April 29th for two reasons. Firstly, I've heard that he was 19 during _Titanic_ from some sources while others say 20. I compromised and made his birthday very soon after _Titanic_, so he's _basically_ 20 when the whole skadoosh happens. The second reason is because it's 15 days after the _Titanic_ struck the iceberg—I have an affinity for dates.

I would like to confirm all inquiries about Yves by stating that last chapter was the absolute very last we will see of him. The introduction of a new character here is significant in Angie's feelings for Jack, although you may have to squint a little bit to find the meaning I intended behind it (I swear, I'm getting exposed to too much Hawthorne these days).

Finally, hope you all have a great Single's Awareness Day! If you're one of the lucky few who didn't send yourself goodies from "A Secret Admirer" (I can NOT be the only person to have done this before), hope you have a great day too!

MAJOR kudos to **hippogriff-tamer, Opaque Opal, Gaslight** and **G. W. Failure** for reviewing; it means so much to me and it is SO nice to see your thoughts! Thanks!

* * *

"So, tell us about this kiss, Angie."

When Jack and Fabrizio woke up the next morning, they had enormous hangovers. They weren't as bad off as I had been my first time—they managed to pull themselves out of bed and beg me to get them coffees. When I came back, they were fully dressed and, even though their eyes were a little bloodshot, they otherwise seemed fine. After we had turned in our room keys, we traveled down the Seine until we came to Dijon. From there we snuck onto a train that took us to Toulouse. There we found a man with a cart full of hay. His name was Felipe and he was going back home to Spain. He agreed to take us to his village for a reasonable fee, so we climbed into the back and nestled in the hay. We had been like that for quite some time when Jack prompted me to tell them both about my kiss with Yves.

"What about it?" I asked, pulling some hay out of my hair.

"Aw, come on, Angie! This was your first kiss! Tell us about it," Jack urged, a malicious glint in his eyes.

I couldn't help but smile at Fabrizio's eagerly mischevious expression.

"Well…he walked me back to the room and said goodbye…"

"Aww," the boys chorused at the same time. It was like they had rehearsed this or something.

I didn't really mind; like any teenaged girl, I loved the attention. I stuck out my tongue, grinning. "And then he just…kissed me."

"What, just like that?" Jack asked, sounding genuinely interested.

I shrugged. "Yeah. It was kind of sudden, but..."

"He didn't strike me as that type of guy," Jack said, more to himself than to Fabrizio and I.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked, huffing a little. Even if I didn't like Yves as much as I had thought, he _was_ my first kiss. Although the kiss itself hadn't been as wonderful and romantic as everyone had promised it would be (don't even get me started on those silly dime-novels going on about it), there was still some sort of sacredness about my first kiss.

Jack and Fabrizio shared a look that made my heart sink. They had been talking again—without me. What was worse was the fact that they were talking _about _me. Well, about Yves, but talking about him basically involved talking about me, didn't it?

"Anyway, uh, what was it like?" Jack asked, adopting his usual casual air.

I bit my lip. "Cold," I decided after a minute.

They collapsed in giggles. Well, Fabrizio giggled; Jack laughed.

"Well, we had just come from inside," I defended half-heartedly, feeling a smile tug at my own lips.

"Is he, ah, French, through and through?" Jack asked a minute later, his face contorting in laughter he was trying and failing to suppress.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked, utterly nonplussed.

This set Jack off again.

"Really, _what_?" I asked, turning to Fabrizio, who was silently shaking with suppressed laughter.

"What he means, is, uh…" Fabrizio let out a tiny giggle. "Did Yves use his…tongue?"

I must have gone pale, or red, either one, because Jack roared with laughter at my face.

"Wha—? No! Ugh! You're a creep, Jack Dawson!" I shouted, whacking Jack on the back as he rolled around on the bottom of the wagon, laughing.

Felipe, who had been ignoring us ever since we scrambled into the back of his wagon, muttered something incomprehensible in Spanish.

* * *

Felipe's village was just three miles from the Spanish-French border, so the day after we arrived there, we walked to the train station, which was a good five miles away, and snuck into one of the empty cars that had some crates stacked up in the corners. The train unknowingly carried us all the way to Barcelona, where we stayed for five weeks. In Barcelona, we vowed not to enslave ourselves like we had in Paris. Well, Fabrizio and I did.

Barcelona was indeed warmer than Paris. It was still chilly, but it was a vast improvement over the freezing-cold weather of Paris. There was an abandoned barn just on the outskirts of the city that we took to sleeping in for the five weeks that we were there. The hay was usually itchy and uncomfortable, but coats and jackets that we weren't using served as comfortable mats. Jack loved drawing the people there; they were so full of life, of passion. We found an obscure little bar one night where the music was wild and frenetic, even better than that of _Les Augustine_. The girls danced in full, colorful skirts, radiating a rare kind of beauty.

It was in Barcelona that I met Pablo. I couldn't keep this one secret; I was almost always in the company of Jack and Fabrizio. Pablo was my age and enthralled by Jack's drawings. More often than not, Fabrizio and I would find the two of them sitting on a street corner, sketching the various people at the marketplace. Pablo stayed with his uncle, who disappeared into the bars late into the night and slept well into the afternoon. His "business" was kept a secret—Pablo confided that he thought his uncle was doing something illegal. Therefore, Pablo spent most of his day with us.

The first time I met Pablo, I was frustratedly trying to buy some fruit from a vendor. I can't even remember what the fruit was; all I know was that I wanted it and the vendor didn't understand me and I didn't understand him. At all. And then out came Pablo, speaking rapidly to the vendor. The man nodded and had this look of realization before turning to get it. Pablo turned then and grinned at me. "You do not speak Spanish, _sì_?"

I shook my head. "No, I don't."

The vendor handed me what I had asked for _ten minutes ago_ and I paid him the due amount. I had thought that that would be the end of it, but Pablo kept walking beside me. I'm not sure if this is common knowledge or not, but the Spanish tend to get very close when they want to talk to you. You can smell their breath. It's not exactly a bad thing; it's just a little surprising when you turn around or look up and they're _right_ in your face.

"My name is Pablo Montoya," he said, his face so close to mine that I caught a whiff of jalapenos he had no doubt had for lunch. I would have shaken his hand had one of mine been empty.

"Angie Marshall," I returned, backing up as much as could be considered polite.

Pablo walked with me all the way to the abandoned barn we were sleeping in. His English was rather good; apparently, his mother had taught him when he was young. And though I know I may sound awful and shallow when I say it, I liked him better than Yves. Pablo wanted to see the world. He told me that he would get up and leave at any hour of the day, so long as he was not alone. He liked Barcelona, but he wanted to leave. He felt the music.

Jack and Fabrizio liked him, too. Jack loved having another artist to talk to and Fabrizio and Pablo found one another entertaining. I didn't act like such an idiot around Pablo as I had around Yves—I was truly comfortable around him, just like my two boys. Pablo came to visit our musty old barn often and he was always taking us to some bar where there was lots of drinking, dancing and fun. Pablo showed me (somewhat) how to dance like the Spanish girls and I taught him how to play blackjack. We often found ourselves holding hands without thinking, something Jack and Fabrizio were quick to pick up on.

"I like Pablo," Jack declared one day after Pablo had visited. "He's better than Evie."

"Yves," I sighed. Jack still called Yves "Evie." "And yes, I like to think so. He would probably come with us wherever we went, you know."

"Yeah. I like the kid. When we leave, whenever that will be, we'll take him with us," Jack decided.

"Are we talking about a person or a dog?" I asked.

Jack threw a handful of hay at me.

* * *

As it turned out, Pablo was the one who suggested we leave.

"My uncle has spent all of our money! The men he works for will come for him soon, and they will come for me, too, if I am there," Pablo announced after bursting into the barn one night.

"Then we'll go," Jack decided firmly.

And so we did. Pablo snuck a few meager possessions from his house that night before joining us at the train station. We snuck onto yet another train. The conductors _never_ checked the last cars, where we were; the authorities in Spain were considerably more lax about stowaways than any other country I've ever been to. The four of us made the car as cozy as comfortable, using our coats for beds again. By now, the weather had warmed up, so we left one of the doors open most of the time to see the gorgeous scenery. It was truly breathtaking. We didn't find out until we got off the train, but Jack's nineteenth birthday came and went in that train car. We had lost track of time and forgotten that it was April 29th.

One night (I think it was Jack's birthday, actually) I found myself unable to sleep. It wasn't unusual; I've never been an easy sleeper. So I did what most girls my age caught up in romantic fantasies would do; I sat on the edge of the train car with my feet dangling over the side and admired the midnight sky. It really is something to see. Presently I was joined by Pablo. We sat there for a good long while in complete silence, just staring at the stars. I was silly and romantic—a million things were running through my head at that point. But I kept quiet.

Finally, I trusted myself enough to speak. "It's very beautiful here. The sky was nothing like this in America or France. I don't think even Italy was this beautiful." You see why I've never been adept at the art of conversation.

"It is very beautiful," he agreed. "I once heard that the stars are all the same, no matter where you go. They…travel with you. I like that."

"Me too," I said automatically. I did. It was somehow warming to know that even if you were completely lost and had no clue where in the world you were, you could still look up at the stars and they would be the same. Doesn't that strike a chord somewhere within?

I remember looking down and realizing that our hands were intertwined, something that happened often and usually without our knowledge of just _how_ we ended up like that. Pablo must have looked down, too, because we both looked up at the same time and our eyes met. It was the kind of moment you read about in those shoddy dime-novels or see in paintings; the often-used moment where two people's eyes meet and a certain frisson passes between them. I would have laughed if it were anyone else; at the moment, I wasn't about to laugh.

Pablo's hand came out to toy with one of my mousy locks of hair then, and I knew what was coming. The part of me that wasn't fully concentrated on Pablo vaguely wondered if his kisses were cold and quick like Yves's were. I closed my eyes when we were only inches apart and found out. Pablo's lips were warm and soft and so _nice_. And, unlike Yves, he used his tongue. The funny thing is, I didn't feel any remorse or awkwardness. Maybe I was finally no longer in love with Jack. Yes, Pablo had definitely found a place that no other man had yet taken.

By the time we hopped off the train in Madrid, Jack and Fabrizio were well aware that "little Angie was growing up." They didn't tease Pablo and me as much as I had originally thought; mind you, though, they _did_ tease us.

Madrid was a rather modern city, as it was the capitol, so more people there spoke English and thus made it easier for us to go to the market. There were no abandoned barns for us this time, so we slept under bridges, along with some other travelers. The other travelers were always coming and going with no real destination in mind. It's strange; we slept under the same bridge as perfect strangers whom we trusted completely. Most people would think that we were crazy, but it was just how we lived.

We stayed in Madrid for roughly two months and enjoyed every minute of it. The weather grew so hazy and humid that we shed our jackets and rolled up our sleeves in the fine Spanish sun. More fruits appeared at the markets and Jack, Fabrizio and I tasted foods we had never even heard of before. The air was rich with the scents of spices and flowers. The air was alive, pulsing. The days rolled sleepily by and we basked in them serenely.

When two months had passed, Jack announced that we had stayed in Madrid long enough and that it was time to move on. No one had any complaints against this, so we slung our sacks over our shoulders and snuck onto the next northwest-bound train leaving Madrid. The train carried us to a town called Zamora, where we were forced to get off before we were caught. We had been in Zamora for about a week before Pablo noted something.

"You know, my aunt and my cousins live a few miles away. We could stay there so that we wouldn't have to sleep under a bridge."

Jack twirled an apple in his hand. "Where do they live?"

"It's called Oviedo; it's not far," Pablo assured him.

"We could go there," I chirped.

"_Sì_, let's go!" Fabrizio urged.

We had to wait another week before we got hold of a man named Salvador. When we told him we wanted to go to Oviedo, he laughed. We had to ask Pablo to translate, and he looked hesitant about doing so. "He, he says that in his wagon, Oviedo is days away. He can take us as far as Palencia."

"I thought you a-said Oviedo was less than a day away!" Fabrizio complained as we settled into Salvador's wagon.

"I thought it was," Pablo apologized. "But trust me, it is not far away. We should be able to find passage from Palencia to Oviedo."

We reached Palencia by the end of the day. Salvador, like many Hispanics, was very hospitable and allowed the four of us to sleep in his home, even though Pablo was the only one who could understand him. When we were eating breakfast the next morning, which was provided by Maya, Salvador's wife, Salvador came from outside and began to speak to Pablo. Pablo turned to us after a few minutes to translate. "He says that his brother-in-law is going to Burgos today, and there is a train station there. The train's first stop is Oviedo."

"Oh, thank you! Uh…_gracias_," Jack said to Salvador.

"_Sì; ringraziare, signore!"_ Fabrizio added.

Salvador gave Fabrizio a strange look; obviously, Italian wasn't as close to Spanish as we had originally thought. But he got the general gist of it and smiled uncertainly. In less than an hour, Jack, Fabrizio, Pablo and I all clambered into the back of the wagon owned by Salvador's brother-in-law. True to his word, he took us to a town called Burgos, right to the train station. We snuck on board again (now that I think about it, I doubt there was a single time when we _didn't_ sneak onto a train) and, within two days, we were at Oviedo. We had to run for it; we think that someone at the station there may have seen us. But we escaped unharmed.

It was rather easy from that point on; Pablo merely inquired various people who were out and about where his aunt was. It only took three people to direct us down the road to a small little house with some chickens walking around in the yard. They scattered as we walked up to the door, led by Pablo, and knocked on the door. It took a few moments before a small child opened the door and blinked at us.

The little boy asked us something, to which Pablo replied rapidly. The little boy beamed, revealing several missing teeth, and toddled inside, shouting, "Mama! Mama!" We followed him into a sitting room of sorts, where a woman who was heavily with child was trying to hush a fussy child. She looked extremely surprised as the little boy babbled something. Pablo stepped forward and added something, to which the woman beamed at and embraced him warmly.

Jack, Fabrizio and I stood there for a long time, waiting patiently as Pablo and his aunt spoke in rapid Spanish. After they had properly been reacquainted, she turned to us and smiled. "Welcome, welcome to my home!"

Anita's English was very good, and so we had hardly any communication problems. She had five children: Diego (the little boy who had greeted us at the door), Beatriz, Consuelo, Teresita (the fussy child she had been soothing when we first walked in), and the baby Javier. We were welcome to stay with them, according to Anita, and we did stay for several months. When we were starting to feel that it was time to go, Anita was so far along that I argued we couldn't very well walk out on a woman about to give birth. We spent a good few hours arguing before Jack and Fabrizio agreed to stay as well. It was the first argument I had won with the two of them, and I flaunted the fact whenever I could.

Anita went into labor on a dull September morning not long after I had won the fight. I had never witnessed a woman giving birth before, nor did I ever want to, so I played with the children and burped Javier occasionally with Jack and Fabrizio while Pablo ran to get the midwife. Several women who didn't understand a lick of English also came to help out with the birth. It lasted well into the night, by which time the children had fallen asleep. It was for the best, now that I think back on it; the child Anita had been carrying was a stillborn.

We stayed with Anita for another month. It was the first child she had lost. She was confined to her bed for three weeks, in which time the four of us had to run the household. I knew that Jack and Fabrizio wanted to leave, and to be brutally honest, I would have been more than happy to go as well. But every time I looked at Pablo, his pained face made me feel duty-bound to stay. I didn't like it much; as I've said before, I'm not one to stay in one place. Running a household made me feel like a normal woman, something I did _not_ want to be; I would have been a man, had I been able to determine my gender before my birth.

When a month had passed and Anita was moving around the house again, Pablo approached Jack, Fabrizio and I one day. "My aunt says that Gijón is only a few miles away. You can get passage to England from there."

We had been sitting under a tree and I had been slumped against it, the haziness of the afternoon making me feel more tired than I really was. I sat up straight. "What do you mean by 'you?' You're coming with us, aren't you?"

It was one of those horrible moments when you ask a question and only as you ask it do you realize the answer, and not the answer you want. I looked around at Jack and Fabrizio to gauge their reactions, only to be further disappointed. The looks they were giving each other…I knew at once that they had already discussed it. Why was I never included in these conversations?

"Angie, Anita can't run the house by herself. She's been having trouble for awhile now. Pablo feels that it's better if he stays here to take care of her and his cousins," Jack said gently, as if I were a temperamental child.

I swallowed. "Okay." I really wanted to storm off, but I knew that would only make them treat me like a child even more. So I sat there and plucked up pieces of grass while Jack sketched Beatriz and Diego romping around nearby. Pablo joined Jack a few minutes later and Fabrizio put his cap over his eyes and fell asleep. The stillness of the air under the tree nearly drove me crazy, but I would not storm off juvenilely.

In two days, we were off. I won't disclose all that Pablo and I said before we parted; there are some things that ought to be left private. In any case, Anita's neighbor, Jorge, gallantly offered to take us to Gijón in his wagon. By now, we were used to hay-filled carts that trundled along on dirt roads, so it was rather easy to fall asleep, especially under the hazy sun. I wish I had been able to fall asleep. But Jack and Fabrizio weren't tired, and if they weren't tired, I would never get any rest.

"Are you a-gonna miss Pablo?" Fabrizio asked.

I gave him a look. "What a dumb question. Of course I am."

Jack looked at me contemplatively. "Are you gonna cry?"

I frowned. "Why would I do that? This stuff happens."

"That's true," Jack acquiesced. "But it's okay if you want to, you know. We won't make fun of you."

Let me make one thing clear: Jack and Fabrizio had never once promised to not make fun of me. Then again, I had never cried in front of them, either. I hadn't wanted to appear weak in front of two older boys, but I decided to keep the crying in mind next time they were taking the mickey out of me and I didn't like it.

We had not been in Gijón for two days before Jack announced over a stolen dinner of chicken that he had found a small tramp steamer whose captain had agreed to take us on. Jack figured that the ship would eventually stop in England, for that was where most of the trade was conducted. We boarded the tramp steamer in three days. I can't even remember the name of it, so insignificant was it to me. Our first port was at Brest, France. Fabrizio had fallen ill with a rare bout of seasickness, and since he was getting off (by the captain's orders), so did Jack and I.

Our stay in France was short; we snuck onto a train bound for Cherbourg, and from there we planned to take a ship headed for England. It was quite something to see the lady elitists in all their finery, their regalia looking almost ridiculous. I did envy some of their silken gowns and ornate hats, but I laughed whenever they attempted to walk through a door with those wide hats. Cherbourg was apparently where many wealthy families spent their time, and we were reminded strongly of the Parisians and the visiting Americans.

In Cherbourg, we found another tramp steamer. This one was definitely headed for England, in Plymouth. Having been assured that Fabrizio was healthy and would not suffer seasickness again, we arranged passage with the captain and headed for England the very next day.


	5. The Eagle's Flight

A/N: Hello all! I hope you guys had a great Valentine's Day, either watching Lifetime movies or actually, you know, dating a Special Someone. I went to a dance, so of course that was LOADS of fun, especially when the cardboard Eiffel Tower collapsed.

So, to address a few things that were pointed out to me earlier.

All of the towns/cities mentioned here are real; I have to give MAJOR props to Google Maps. I have no idea how accurate the traveling distance I've written is; the only country I've been to outside of America is Switzerland, and I don't even remember the geography of that beautiful little country.

I've gotten a lot of questions regarding all the Italian and even the Spanish I've thrown in here. I looked up everything Fabrizio ever said in Italian and discovered that he has _quite_ the potty-mouth! Predictably, I've woven these into my vocabulary. Someday I'll have to learn something that _isn't_ insulting in Italian. As for the Spanish, I just used online translators; I decided to be different and took German instead of Spanish like everybody and his brother.

This chapter will introduce you all to the _Titanic_; I've included the _New York_ incident and attempted to use scenes from the movie without making this one of those cut-and-paste-directly-from-the-script "fics." I _have_ used some bits from the script that didn't make it to the final cut that I personally felt should have been left in, though.

Tremendous thank-yous to **hippogriff-tamer, Gaslight, **and **G. W. Failure** for reviewing; your input truly makes my day!

Disclaimer: Everything you see here is the property of James Cameron. Angie is the only thing I can claim as mine.

* * *

True to his word, Fabrizio did not get seasick, although he didn't have much chance to in any case. The journey to Plymouth only took a few hours; we got there at eight o'clock in the evening. It was the first time Jack and I had been to England since we had left America some time ago. It was almost December now and snow blanketed the ground and buildings. It is quite something to see an English city covered in snow. I cannot describe the feeling one gets from looking at it; it is something that one must experience themselves.

After spending the night in an old chapel that some other tramps were sleeping in, the three of us bought some bread and cheese and decided to head towards London. It was really the only English city we wanted to see. You see, I only knew of a few English cities: London, Plymouth, Southampton and Liverpool. Three of these cities were port cities that I had visited, and I wanted to see a city I had not yet been to already. So, after taking some more bread and cheese, we snuck aboard a train. This was becoming the most common form of travel for us.

We had to get off the trains at each stopping point; uniformed men checked the cars and were known to go so far as to arrest people like us who did not buy a ticket. Our first stop was in a city called Exeter, which Fabrizio was never able to pronounce. From there we went to Bath, which was supposed to be a haven for the wealthy, and then to a place called Bristol, which I thought exceedingly fun to say. The next train went alongside the Thames, stopping in a place called Oxford. The next train out of Oxford carried us to London, where we stayed for quite some time.

Normally we would have slept under bridges, but London is most unpleasant outdoors in the winter, so we begged kind pastors to let us sleep in chapels and in rundown buildings where we were unlikely to be noticed. Jack's fingers nearly froze off, but he continued to sketch, trying to keep out of the snow. Many people stopped to admire his drawings, but they had seen plenty of talented artists before and Jack was no exception. The three of us pulled the trick we had in Italy, but modified; Fabrizio would ask for directions, pretending to speak no English, while I would slip some food and Jack would keep a lookout. It worked quite well, and we were so experienced that we only had trouble with a bobby once.

Fabrizio's twentieth birthday and my sixteenth birthday passed in London. To celebrate the occasion, we spent those nights in a small inn and went to celebrate in the local pub. We bought pork dinners for both of the birthday dinners and even some small cakes from the nearby confectionary. When we went to the pub, we met some lovely locals who happily played cards and danced with us. Londoners of our station, I think I should add, are extremely friendly people. At least, the ones we encountered were. They suggested I try some "'ot fish an' chips" and even helped me imitate their Cockney accents. I spent another birthday dancing wildly and drinking beer until I was seeing double.

Although a hangover inevitably came the next morning, it wasn't as bad as it had been before. Jack said this meant I was starting to be able to hold my liquor. I was starting to grow proud of the fact when he pointed out that I was also almost an adult and that was probably why. _Almost_ an adult. I admit to feeling disappointed—so Jack didn't think I was old enough for him yet. Yes, I had had feelings for Yves and most definitely for Pablo, but…Jack was closer within my reach. I had decided not to dwell on those that I couldn't have and focus on that which I _could_ have. Unfortunately, it did not work out in my favor.

We stayed in London until March, when the weather had warmed up and we were ready to move on. We snuck aboard a train bound for the sea-city of Brighton. We encountered some trouble there with some people who did not like Fabrizio—Italians are not very well-received in places other than Italy. In fact, many men have been known to call cowardly men Italians. So, wanting to avoid trouble, we hopped aboard a train that carried us to Portsmouth. We stayed there for a couple of weeks before Jack and I decided that since we had already been there, it would be nice to go on somewhere else.

"Can we a-leave England?" Fabrizio asked one evening as we debated our options. "It is a-so boring here!"

"He's got a point, you know," I yawned, brushing away a mouse that was skittering around near my feet. Although this was only a mouse, I wasn't about to let it move freely—hungry rats have gnawed at the hems of my skirts before.

"Well…we could go to Southampton. There's always a ship goin' somewhere," Jack suggested wisely.

And so we decided to go to Southampton. We snuck aboard one last train the next day and jumped off in Southampton before the uniformed conductors could find us. Southampton is where most White Star Line and Cunard Line ships make berth from, so we knew we would find something soon. Now that the weather had warmed up (it was April), we were able to sleep under bridges again. There was a myriad of people we shared these bridges with, not all of whom spoke English.

While in Southampton, Jack, Fabrizio and I kept our ears open for word of passage for us out of England. Even fewer people in Southampton than in London were interested in Jack's drawings, so we had literally no money. The three of us continued our "Italian Trick," as we called it. Fabrizio was very good at pretending not to know any English, and I could make myself blend in with a crowd quite easily.

* * *

I will never, ever forget the morning of April 10th, 1912. Nor will many, for that matter. We were in an obscure pub at the docks where the brand new luxury steamer, the RMS _Titanic_, was to sail from and make its maiden voyage. It was all over the papers that the newsboys brandished in our faces, and on the rare occasion we got "'ot fish and chips" wrapped in the papers, we would read about it through greasy smears. It was the largest and supposedly fastest ship yet, and White Star Line was rather proud of it.

The morning had started off normally enough; we wandered into the pub and watched the people boarding the ship. We were sitting near two Swedish cousins, Olaf and Sven. Before long, Jack and Fabrizio had begun to play poker with the two of them. Seeing as how I had never done very well in poker, I pulled up a chair behind Jack and Fabrizio and watched in interest. I grew especially interested when the Swedes threw two third-class tickets on the _Titanic_ into the betting pool.

As the game grew more intense, Fabrizio and I grew more and more nervous. We had thrown in possessions that we could have bartered for food or passage later on—now, they may go to two Swedes. Jack, however, was as cool as a cucumber. He just sat there, dragging on his cigarette and looking supremely unconcerned. Finally, Fabrizio leaned over to him. "Jack, you are _pazzo_; you bet everything we have."

Jack didn't seem to mind being called crazy. He took out his cigarette, blowing out a puff of smoke and leaning forward as well. "When ya got nothin', ya got nothin' to lose."

Damn Jack and his little aphorisms. Both of the men leaned back, Fabrizio slumping and looking resigned while Jack continued to look self-assured. The two Swedes began to bicker.

"Jack, I swear, if we starve tonight, I will stick my foot so far up your—"

"I get it, Angie," Jack cut across, not even glancing up at me. He turned to the Swede in the hat. "Sven?"

Sven said something in Swedish that I, naturally, did not understand. He was dealt a new card. Jack put one of his cards down and reached for one out of the pile. Olaf drew a shaky breath; he wasn't doing so well. The pocket-watch he had thrown down earlier ticked agonizingly, as if to remind the four players that they could win or lose at any second.

"All right, moment of truth," Jack said, breaking the tension. "Somebody's life's about to change. Fabrizio?"

Fabrizio gave him a look and slapped his cards on the table.

"_Niente_," Jack noted calmly.

"_Niente_," Fabrizio repeated somewhat angrily, looking as if he could cheerfully strangle Jack. My grip on Jack's and Fabrizio's chairs tightened; it all depended on Jack now.

"Olaf?" Jack asked, seeming not to notice Fabrizio's malcontent. Olaf threw his cards on the table. "Nothin'," Jack said unnecessarily. "Sven?"

Sven was perhaps the least childish; he neatly laid his cards on the table and looked expectantly at Jack.

"Uh-oh. Two pair," Jack noted, looking at his own cards. Fabrizio and I exchanged a look; we silently promised to kill Jack if he lost. He sighed and turned to us, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Fabrizio."

I let out a groan as Fabrizio bellowed, "_Que_ sorry? _Ma vaffanculo_! You bet all the money—"

"I'm sorry, you're not gonna see your mom again for a long time," Jack interrupted, the corners of his lips rising. "'Cause we're goin' to America! Full house, boys!"

The three of us acted like complete idiots, whooping and laughing and hollering.

"We're goin' to the land of the free and home of the real hotdogs! On the _Titanic_!" I all but screamed, so delirious I felt I would burst.

"_Dio mio, grazie_!" Fabrizio shouted to God above, kissing the bills we had won. He threw his arms around my waist and spun me around, both of us laughing and whooping. We had real _money_ now!

As Jack scooped up our belonging, Olaf grabbed him by the collar and said something in Swedish. It looked like he was about to hit him, but he changed directions and threw the punch at Sven instead. We laughed at that, feeling tipsy off of our victory. Well, _their_ victory—I had just watched.

"Come on!" Jack said excitedly, turning to us.

"_Figlio di puttana_!" Fabrizio shouted, the words affectionate instead of insulting.

Jack took the bills and kissed them. "I'm goin' home!" He seized Fabrizio and hugged him, dancing around a little bit.

"I go to America!" Fabrizio declared, happier than I had seen him in a long, long time.

"No, mate," the bartender said, causing a hush to fall over the pub. "_Titanic _go to America…in five minutes!"

"Shit," Jack said. We all three scrambled to pour everything into his bag, our hands trembling excitedly as we did so.

"Gentlemen, it's been grand!" I declared as I swung my bag onto my back and sprinted madly after Jack and Fabrizio.

"We're ridin' in high style now! We're a couple of regular swells!" Jack called over his shoulder as we dashed to the ship. "We're practically goddamn royalty, _ragazzo mio_!"

"And what about me?!" I shouted, nearly breathless. "There were two tickets, Jack Dawson, and I'm not staying here!"

"It's called stowing away, Angie!" Jack shouted back. "Don't worry about it! We're goin' to _America_!"

"You see, it's my _destino_! And like I told you, I go to America to be _millionario_!" Fabrizio added, his famous giggling about to surface in his voice. We nearly ran into a couple of horses. "_Bastardo_!" Fabrizio cursed.

Jack let out a whoop as Fabrizio and I fought to keep up with him, our bags bouncing roughly against our backs.

"You're _pazzo_!" Fabrizio shouted giddily.

"Maybe, but _I've _got the tickets!" Jack retorted. "Come on, I thought you were fast!"

"_Aspetta_!" Fabrizio shouted, grabbing my hand and pulling me along.

We just barely made it; the gangplank was being pulled away from the door (I'm sure there's a nautical term for it, but for now, I shall call it a door).

"Wait, wait, we're passengers!" we shouted, running up and catching ourselves at the end before we toppled into the water below.

An extremely crisp officer was leaning out of the door, motioning for our tickets. Jack maintained hold of them; he made it look like there were three. I couldn't help grinning; maybe we _would_ get away with this.

"Have you been through the inspection queue?" Officer Crisp asked us.

"Of course. Anyway, we don't have any lice. We're Americans. All of us," Jack said indignantly. Officer Crisp looked skeptically at Fabrizio but decided not to push it—the ship was about to cast off.

"Right. Come aboard."

We leapt into the ship, grinning and trying not to whoop.

"We're the luckiest sons of bitches in the world, you know that?!" Jack said excitedly.

Unfortunately, a man sitting at a table sternly motioned us over. "Let me see your tickets."

Fabrizio and I exchanged glances, but Jack, _of course_, marched right up to the man and held them out unconcernedly. He wasn't letting go, either, much to the man's suspicion. He cocked an eyebrow as he read the names. "Gunderson and…Gunderson." He eyed Fabrizio incredulously.

"C'mon, Sven," Jack said loudly, making to leave.

"Where's _her_ ticket, hmm?" the man asked, obviously not believing us. Well, who can blame him? We weren't exactly _subtle_.

"Uh…I think I…left it in my bag. Hold on a moment," I invented lamely. I pulled my bag away by a few feet and hunched over it, my heart pounding so hard that I was surprised no one else heard it. The boys crowded around me, panic evident on Fabrizio's face and even hesitation on Jack's. "What now?" I hissed.

Jack glanced around; the man was still eyeing us. Officer Crisp went over to ask him something and Jack seized one of my arms and one of Fabrizio's. "Hurry!" he hissed, yanking us out of there.

"Hey, you!" someone shouted after us, but we darted away, exploding with laughter.

"How could you have ever doubted me?" Jack asked, putting on a long-suffering expression.

I hit his arm. "That was _close_, Jack!"

"But the point is that we _made_ it," Jack pointed out, grinning. He led us up to the crowded deck where everyone was waving down at the masses below. We stood up on the railing to get a better look. Jack began waving and shouting, "Goodbye!"

"You know somebody?" Fabrizio asked in genuine interest.

"Of course not, that's not the point!" Jack explained, pumping his arm frantically. "Goodbye, I'll miss you!

I joined in, blowing kisses to imaginary friends and family.

"Goodbye! I will a-never forget you!" Fabrizio caught on. I admit to giggling like an idiot, as did Fabrizio. We were flushed from laughing so hard that we very nearly missed the boat that nearly careened into us. I didn't see everything, considering I had been waving like an idiot, but from what I could figure, we had almost had a collision. An ill omen for a maiden voyage, no doubt.

"What was that?" I asked, echoing several others.

"I think…we just barely avoided a collision. But nothing happened," Jack observed, leaning far over.

"Well, naturally we were almost hit by something named _New York_!" an obviously British man joked. Even though I was an American, I found this extremely funny, as did Fabrizio, so our laughter was renewed afresh. Jack just rolled his eyes, grinning. Once we made it out of the harbor without any further mishaps, Jack led the way to his and Fabrizio's cabin, Fabrizio and I still occasionally breaking into fits of giggles. There was no real reason for us to, which made it all the funnier.

"And just where am I supposed to sleep?" I asked Jack after I had calmed down. "I don't have a cabin, y'know."

"We'll find somethin'," Jack promised. "360, 360…"

We passed a pretty blonde girl who caught Fabrizio's eye. They looked at each for a long moment before she had to turn the corner. I nudged Fabrizio, smirking. "What was _that_ all about, Fabri?"

"_Zitto_," he muttered, looking rather pleased with himself.

"Ah, right here," Jack called to us, opening the cabin door. "Hey, how you doin'? Jack. Nice to meet you," Jack introduced himself to his cabin mates, one of whom was shaving. It was a bit strange for him to be shaving at that particular moment, right as we were leaving port, but I'm sure he had a good reason for it.

Fabrizio put his bag on the top bunk and climbed up while Jack was still introducing himself. Jack turned around and grinned. "Who says you get top bunk, huh?" he asked, tickling Fabrizio.

Fabrizio, predictably, giggled like a little boy while I dropped my bag onto the ground. The two men looked at me strangely. I smiled. "Oh, don't worry; I'm not staying here."

They continued to stare at me blankly.

"It was a pleasure, I'm sure," I said, starting to feel somewhat out of place. "I'm going up on deck."

"Hey, wait up and we'll join ya," Jack said, crawling out from the bottom bunk. "Fabri, c'mon."

So the three of us left the two silent roommates and went up on deck again. It was indeed the largest ship in the world; I grew exhausted just walking the deck. The salty air tasted delicious and the wind, while bracing, was pleasant. A captain on one of the tramp steamers we had sailed on, Captain Argyle, once informed us that the reason sailors are so hungry is because something, probably the salt, in the sea air makes one exhausted and famished if exposed to it for too long. This was true now; I was starving by dinnertime and nearly worn out. I heard that we were stopping in Cherbourg later that night, but I didn't bother finding out; as day turned into night, the once pleasant breeze turned into a rough and chilly wind.

Dinner was exemplary. Then again, we had been eating moldy bread and cheese and puny fish for a long while, so anything tasted exemplary compared to that. The table we sat at seated six people—the three people who sat across from us introduced themselves as the Cartmells. Bert Cartmell, a jolly-looking man, was very fun to talk to. His wife, Emmeline, was a quiet, smiling woman, and their young daughter, Cora, was the sweetest little girl imaginable. She was quite taken by Jack, especially his drawings.

Over the course of dinner, we revealed to the Cartmells that I was a stowaway. They were genial enough people and we very highly doubted that they were going to tell any of the wrong people. Sure enough, Bert and "Emmy" exchanged glances and turned to me immediately.

"Do stay with us, darlin'!" Emmy began insistently, as if she knew I would refuse.

I should have refused at least once to appear modest, but I wasn't about to lose an opportunity to have my own bed. "Thank you so much," I said gratefully.

Emmy beamed, satisfied that she had "convinced" me. "It's a four-berth room, so of course we've got an extra bunk. You just bring your things over after dinner and we'll be ready for you. Right, Bert?"

Bert nodded, swallowing his potatoes. "How'd you like that, Cora?"

Cora, who was still having trouble coming out of her little shell, nodded shyly. I smiled at her and dug into the dessert. After dinner, Jack let me into his cabin (Fabrizio still couldn't navigate his way around the ship and probably would have gotten me lost) so that I could get my bag. Emmy let me into the Cartmells' cabin and apologetically told me that they had already chosen their bunks, leaving me with the top bunk over Cora's. The Cartmells were the kind of people who are so nice it's incredible and you feel like a horribly rude person around them, just because they're so kind.

When we returned to the dining room, a party was in full swing. The loud music that I loved so well was pounding throughout the room. My body responded instantly; my hips began to move to the rhythm just as my feet began to move with a lightness only felt in dancing. The music swirled around in my ears, setting every nerve on fire. I beamed and all but skipped off to find Jack and Fabrizio. They were sitting at one of the tables, leaning back in their seats while drinking beer.

"What are you doing?! Get up!" I ordered, tossing my jacket onto the empty chair beside Fabrizio.

"Why?" Jack asked, his body language showing that he had no intention whatsoever of getting up.

"I want to _dance_!" I whined, almost stamping my foot.

"I'll a-dance with you," Fabrizio offered over the noise, draining his beer, setting it down and taking my hand as we headed to the dance floor. My slight disappointment that Jack had not danced with me did not last for long; finally, I was able to dance again! The few times I had danced in England weren't as exotic as the dances in Spain or even in France; I don't really know why. Maybe because the music wasn't as wild and foreign as it was now. In any case, I took to the dancing with enthusiasm, laughing and whooping as we hopped around the room. We twirled each other a few times, nearly collapsing in laughter whenever we did so.

Jack and Fabrizio's two roommates, Olaus and Bjorn Gunderson, spoke no English but were very good dancers. Jack got up a few times to dance with little Cora; she would stand carefully on his toes as they danced off to the side, away from the more exuberant dancers, such as Fabrizio and I. I tried not to drink too much beer; I had a feeling the Cartmells might not like it if I did that. Since the third-class passengers had to be below deck before ten o'clock, the party began to dwindle not long afterwards.

At eleven o'clock, Cora fell asleep on her father's lap and the Cartmells decided to go to bed. I came with them, feeling it would be rude to come later. Bert waited outside while Emmy, Cora and I changed into our nightgowns. We crawled under the covers and turned away while he changed. I fell asleep before he had finished changing—I had never been more comfortable than in my illegal bunk on the Ship of Dreams.


	6. Tommy Ryan

A/N: So, I _was_ going to post this on Monday, but as you all know, there was that _stupid_ "technical glitch" that prevented me from doing so. I feel like I should apologize for the delay, but of course, it wasn't my fault at all. Believe me, I checked sixty-eleven times yesterday to see if I could log in, which of course I couldn't. Anyway, here is the next installment!

Many thanks go out to **Gaslight, hippogriff-tamer** and **G. W. Failure**, all of whom provide a great deal of motivation for me posting this!

I also want to dedicate this chapter to the late Ambrosia De Sena, who took her life on Thursday, February 19th, 2009. I didn't know you that well and I don't know where you ended up, but you were loved by so many people. I wish you had understood that. But what's done is done, and I know you felt it was the right thing. Rest in Peace.

* * *

When I woke up the next morning, Emmy was helping Cora get dressed. She smiled up at my bed-tousled state. "Good mornin', love! Did you sleep all right?"

"I slept wonderfully," I said truthfully, dropping onto the floor. We dressed and combed and pinned up our hair. Well, Cora didn't have to; she was lucky to still be young enough to get away with loose hair. If I did that, people would think I was a very young and very scrawny prostitute. Bert had dressed earlier and gone on to breakfast. He was sitting with Jack and Fabrizio when we came to breakfast, which was, I might add, delicious. It had been so long since I had had _real_ breakfast food for breakfast that I ate a little bit of everything.

"You eat like a pig," Jack noted, although his mouth was stuffed as well.

"I'm hungry," I managed to say, swallowing my food and taking a huge sip of orange juice. "And you're not exactly pecking at your food, either."

"But I'm a man; men are _supposed_ to eat like this," Jack argued. "Women are not."

"I wish I was a man sometimes," I muttered. And I did; I could have gotten away with a lot more if I was of the opposite sex.

"Well, you _do_ kind of look like one." Jack pretended he was serious as he tilted his head, examining me.

I threw a piece of toast at him.

* * *

At eleven-thirty, we stopped in Queenstown, Ireland, to pick up some new passengers and to drop off some old ones. We would have stayed outside to wave at the crowds again, but it was taking a long time and we were starving. After a hurried lunch, Jack, Fabrizio, the Cartmells and I all went out a little bit after one and watched. Finally, at one-thirty, the ship was tugged out of the harbor. We waved as if we knew everyone down there. Someone played _Erin's Lament_ on their pipes; those pipes would later join the makeshift band at the steerage parties every night.

When the ship began to pick up speed, the Cartmells returned to the cabin to take a nap—the party the night before had worn them out. I followed Jack and Fabrizio as we raced to the bow of the ship. The three of us stood up on the railing, leaning over and looking down at the water breaking against the ship.

"Look, look, look!" I squealed, pointing down at the dolphins jumping up in front of us. I had seen dolphins before on the tramp steamers, but they never failed to fill me with a child-like wonder. We kept pointing them out to one another, even when the rest of us were already looking. We whooped a little bit as they jumped—it looked as if they were trying to urge the speeding ship to slow down and dive beneath the water with them.

"I can see that Statue of Liberty already! Very small, of course," Fabrizio joked, giggling at himself.

I stood carefully on one of the rungs of the railing and spread out my arms. The wind whipped against me and I laughed at the feeling of it. Looking down, it seemed as if there was no ship beneath me. "Look, I'm flying!"

Jack imitated me, spreading out his arms and letting out a whoop. "I'm the king of the world!" he bellowed, whooping and howling like a wolf.

Fabrizio and I imitated him, letting our arms sail and feeling the wind push against us. I'm sure we looked like fools, but at the moment, nothing mattered less. When we finally tired of pretending to fly, we went to the stern of the ship where most of the other third-class passengers were congregated. Jack and Fabrizio found what looked like two stools against the railing. I'm sure they served some sort of nautical purpose, but I didn't particularly care; I wasn't the one sitting on them. As there were no other seats, I perched on top of the railing, keeping my hands tight to it so as not to fall. I would have been better off standing; my backside was sore afterwards.

A scowling man about Jack and Fabrizio's age sauntered over sometime later, leaning back against the adjacent railing and lighting up a cigarette. I didn't notice him at first; I was too busy watching Jack draw Bert and Cora, the latter of whom was standing on the railing and leaning against her father's belly as he explained how the propellers worked.

After awhile, Fabrizio and the other man began making small talk. I tried to pay attention to be kind, but really I wanted to watch Jack draw some more.  
"This ship is uh…nice, eh?" Fabrizio asked the man.

"Yeah, it's an Irish ship," the man said with a definitive Irish brogue. A note of pride resounded in his voice.

"It's English, no?" Fabrizio asked, clearly surprised. I was also surprised; I had thought that, since the ship made berth in Southampton, it was an English ship. Well, doesn't that make sense? And the ship did read "Liverpool" on the stern, which was most definitely not an Irish place.

"No! Fifteen-thousand Irishmen built this ship! Solid as a rock; big Irish hands," the man said indignantly.

"But then, why did it make berth in Southampton?" I asked carefully; I didn't want to offend him more than he already seemed to be.

"They all make berth in Southampton, lass. White Star Line ships are more often than not built in Ireland. This one was made in Belfast at the Harland and Wolff shipyard," the man said proudly. "Me brother helped build it. I saw it once, back before they dressed her up a good bit."

"But that's stupid. We just came to Ireland today," I protested, feeling a bit foolish as I persisted in my argument.

The man laughed. "Lass, those limey idiots don't want such a fine ship to make berth in Ireland. They hate us; think we're worse than mutts. Nah, they just want us to build it and then make us the last stop before America. That's why the White Star Line headquarters are in Southampton."

"Oh," I said quietly. I'd never been to Ireland and I had known very few Irishmen in all my time, so I wasn't aware then of the scorn some English folks felt towards Irish folks and vice-versa. I know _now_; Heaven knows I've dealt with more than enough proud, English-hating Irishmen since then.

Two stewards walked by then, walking some dogs. I had seen a steward scoop up a dog's droppings with a handkerchief earlier that day; apparently, they only walked them on the third-class deck. I suppose they didn't want to upset the first-class or even the second-class passengers with a dog's bodily functions; a lady might faint at the sight or something.

"Ah, that's typical; first-class dogs come down here to take a shite," the man said bitterly, dragging on his cigarette.

"Ah, it let's us know where we rank in the scheme of things," Jack said teasingly, speaking for the first time in awhile. Apparently, he was finished with his sketch of Bert and Cora, for he had closed up his sketchbook and was focusing fully on our new acquaintance.

"Like we could forget?" the man asked wryly. He smiled and held out his hand, first to Jack. "I'm Tommy Ryan."

"Jack Dawson."

"Angie Marshall."

"Fabrizio."

"Hello," Tommy said after shaking each of our hands. He nodded at Jack's sketchbook. "Do you make any money with your drawings?"

When a beat passed without Jack's answering, I turned to look at him. Jack was staring ahead, and we looked around to see what had caught his attention. After a moment, I spotted it, and let me tell you, I feel no remorse in calling her an "it." She was a finely-dressed first-class girl with flaming red hair pinned up pristinely and a light green dress bedecked in lace. I had laced women like these into whalebone corsets and pinned up and taken down their hair at the hotel in Paris. I knew their type; filthy rich and vain as Narcissus. I couldn't see why Jack found her so appealing.

"Ah, forget it, boyo," Tommy said, laughter coming into his voice. "Yeh'd as like have angels fly out yer arse as get next to the likes of her."

Fabrizio and I laughed at this. Fabrizio waved his hand in front of Jack's face, but still he stared, entranced. I was growing jealous, but I laughed to save face.

"Oi, lover-boy," I teased, poking Jack in the head, "wanna put your eyes back in your head?"

"Huh?" Jack asked. Really, I was starting to get annoyed with him. She was just another first-class porcelain doll and one that he couldn't have. My suspicions were confirmed when a swell who was most likely her husband or her fiancé came out of nowhere and grabbed her arm roughly. There was an unpleasant-looking exchange between them before she pulled loose and stalked off. He swung his hat around, obviously disgruntled, before following her a moment later. I didn't think he would have the upperhand for very long; her type always turned into the nagging type after a few years.

"What were we talking about?" Jack asked, shaking his head like a wet dog.

"Mr. Ryan here asked you if you made any money with your drawings," I reminded him patiently, trying to blow a flyaway curl out of my face and failing miserably; my breath was no match for the wind. I grabbed it and shoved it back.

"Oh. Uh, yeah, I charge ten cents apiece, and sometimes people buy 'em," Jack said to Tommy, glancing down at his sketches.

"He's really good," I added, trying to hide the flush that came up.

Jack shrugged. "I'm not bad," he conceded.

"Show him," Fabrizio urged. Before Jack could react, Fabrizio had snatched Jack's sketchbook from his lap and displayed it to Tommy. Tommy agreed that Jack was "a ruddy good artist" and said that if he had had any money or any use for a drawing, he would have bought one. I guessed that was high praise coming from someone like Tommy Ryan; now I know it was.

"So, is that why yer goin' to America? More opportunities, yeh think?" Tommy asked, dragging on his cigarette again.

Jack grinned. "Actually, we won our tickets in a _very_ lucky poker game."

"I watched," I volunteered.

"Yeah," Jack sniggered, taking his sketchbook back from Fabrizio. "Angie can't play poker to save her life."

"I'm a damn sight better than you at blackjack," I pointed out heatedly, my face growing red as the three men laughed at my inability to play poker.

"Eh, that's true," Jack conceded, a victorious smirk still on his face. "But you're pitiful at poker, which is why you weren't playing it yesterday."

I pursed my lips, folding my arms over my chest. I couldn't exactly argue with this.

"Wait, wait; this was _yesterday_?!" Tommy asked, sounding extremely delighted.

I nodded, rolling my eyes. "Yes. And of course Jack, being the ass he is, had the game going on until the ship almost left without us."

"_I'm_ telling the story here," Jack interrupted as Tommy hooted with laughter. "So, anyway, we were in a pub and we got into a game of poker with these two Swedes. So one of them—"

"Sven," Fabrizio volunteered.

"Sven," Jack agreed, "threw two third-class tickets for the _Titanic_ into the betting pool. His cousin—"

"Olaf," Fabrizio supplied again.

"Olaf, wasn't too happy about that," Jack said, chuckling as he remembered Olaf's livid expression when Sven had pulled out the tickets. "So, they all had nothin', including Fabrizio, but I had a full house, so we won, of course."

"Hang it a moment," Tommy cut in. "You said there were two Swedes, but there's three of yeh."

"I'm getting to that," Jack said patiently, obviously enjoying his story-telling and the interest of his audience. "So, the bartender told us that the _Titanic_ was leavin' in five minutes."

Tommy whistled in amazement. "Shite," he muttered, puffing away on his cigarette.

Jack nodded. "Yeah. So we ran for it and just barely made it. They were pulling down the gangplank when we got there. Then this pansy of an officer asks us for our tickets, but I held onto 'em. I guess he thought there were three instead of two, because he let us go on in."

Tommy raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. "Cor. 'Twas that easy, was it?"

We all nodded.

"He looked kinda young; I think this was his first voyage or something. But of _course_ we almost got caught after that." I threw a sharp glance at Jack, who rolled his eyes.

"The quartermaster checked our tickets and didn't see Angie's. We almost got caught. _Almost_. But we _didn't_, _right_, Angie?"

I scowled at him.

"So, what did yeh do then? I mean, yeh couldn't have stayed in a room with a load of men," Tommy asked me, something in his look telling me he would have found it very amusing if I _had_ stayed in a room with a load of men.

"You see that little girl with her dad over there?" I asked him, nodding towards the Cartmells.

"Aye," Tommy answered, puffing on his beloved cigarette again. He would need a new one soon.

"They sat with us at dinner last night and let me sleep in their cabin," I said primly, smoothing out my skirt.

Tommy's eyebrows rose again. "Lady Luck's paid yeh a visit, I see."

I grinned. "So it would seem."

We talked with Tommy until the bugles rang, announcing the start of first-class dinner. We could hear them from the poop deck (considering that the dogs "took a shite" there and that it was where third-class passengers were kept, the name seemed very fitting), so when the bugles rang, we headed to the dining room for our own dinner. We probably got ours earlier, too; knowing first-class ladies (and once you dress them, you know them well enough), they would take at least an hour to get dressed and whatnot.

Tonight, Tommy joined us for dinner. He pulled up an extra chair from where the Gunderson cousins were sitting and dug in with the Cartmells, Jack, Fabrizio and me. Bert convinced Tommy to tell us about his family, most of whom lived in County Tipperary.

"Well, me sister Elsie and her husband live in New York. I have a brother working on a steam liner, and then I've got nine other brothers and sisters in Boher," Tommy explained.

"You have _eleven_ brothers and sisters?" Cora asked, agape.

Tommy nodded solemnly. "Aye. And a few nieces and nephews runnin' about. In fact, me sister Pippa just had her first lad a few months ago, Luke."

"Why aren't any of them with you?" I asked, thoroughly interested in a man who had eleven siblings. That was the kind of thing you heard of but never saw for yourself.

Tommy swallowed a great mouthful of fish before talking. "Most of the ones old enough to go are girls, so they're either about to get married or are already married and have kids to watch out fer. Pippa was goin' to come; her husband's in Chicago. But the doctor said she wasn't strong enough, so she had to stay behind. The older brother I told you about works on a steam liner. I have another older brother, Ronnie, but he swears he'll never leave Ireland fer as long as he lives."

Tommy spent the rest of dinner describing his various brothers and sisters. I admit that I couldn't keep up with all of them, but I don't think anyone else did, either. Tommy probably knew that we couldn't keep up with all of them, for once he was finished, he turned the topic to our stories.

The Cartmells were simply on their way to a new life in the States. Bert had been sacked, as had a number of his friends, and Bert had heard from his cousin that America was the place to be. So the Cartmell family had packed up their belongings and treated themselves to three tickets for the RMS _Titanic_.

Jack, Fabrizio and I, of course, had won the tickets. We spoke briefly of our travels in Italy, France, Spain and eventually to England, but our story did not last for long; dinner was being finished and the party was beginning. I felt a rush of excitement as those with instruments gathered together and struck up a tune. The bagpipes now joined the band, improving the overall harmony of the music. The giddiness was infectious; soon, the tables had been pushed back to allow room for dancing and everyone was moving to the beat in some way.

Tommy Ryan danced, and not badly, I might add. I say this because for a solid hour he swore that he couldn't dance and that he would just watch us dance. After dancing one dance each with Jack, Fabrizio, Bjorn and Olaus Gunderson, I plunked myself down at the seat beside him and begged and pleaded until he surrendered and let me pull him out to the dance floor.

"I warn yeh, lass, I'll step on yer feet," he shouted over the din, putting one hand on my waist and grasping my own hand with the other.

"I've danced with the worst of the worst!" I assured him, my feet starting before my mind could really register that I was dancing.

It was true; I _had_ danced with the worst of the worst. Some of the immigrants in London could simply _not _dance. I had the bruises and blisters to prove it. But Tommy _could_ dance. He wove his way through the other dancers so that we never even touched any of them. He kept his eyes on his feet most of the time, but I didn't mind; I was having too much fun whirling about to engage him in any kind of conversation.

When the dance was over, I was out of breath and laughing so hard I almost had to lean against Tommy for support. Instead, I grinned up at him. "You liar! You said you couldn't dance!"

"I only dance if I have to. I'd thought yeh might leave me alone, but yeh didn't," Tommy shouted over the noise, leading the way back to the table.

I crossed my arms over my chest as he sat back down, lighting up a cigarette. "That's it, then? You're just going to sit back down and not dance anymore?"

Tommy thought for a moment before saying, "Aye, that's about right."

I huffed, but before I could pester him anymore, Bjorn Gunderson came out of nowhere, pulling on my hand.

"You dance, eh?" he asked.

So of course I danced with him. Bjorn, I might add, was quite a dancer. Few men have achieved making me feel as weightless as I do when I dance with Jack, and Bjorn was one of those few men. He gabbled to me in Swedish and I chatted in English, and although we couldn't understand a blasted word the other was saying, we laughed about it and kept up our "conversation." I know it sounds utterly insane, dancing and talking with someone who can't understand a word you're saying and speaks to you in a language you don't understand, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world at the time.

By the time Bjorn and I both decided to sit down (four dances in a row were starting to wear us out), Jack and Fabrizio were sprawled over in their chairs, pouring the dark beer into their mouths and lamenting over sore feet. Bjorn gestured wildly until I finally understood that he was going to get more beers, leaving me with Jack, Fabrizio and Tommy. Even though we had just met him, we were getting along wonderfully with Tommy. Jack had danced for a bit with Cora and a pretty, dark-haired Irish girl, and Fabrizio had found the pretty blonde from the day before.

"What's her name?" I asked him, my voice growing hoarse as I tried to speak over the ruckus.

Fabrizio shrugged, looking somewhat guilty. "I do not a-know! I do not a-think she a-speaks English. I just held out my a-hand and asked her to a-dance and she a-came with a-me."

"Didn't you try to talk to her while you were dancing?"

The incredulous look on Fabrizio's face made me feel embarrassed.

"Well, I'm only saying, me and Bjorn talked the whole time, and we can't understand each other!" I protested, trying to seem less stupid.

"But we were a-right beside the music," Fabrizio explained.

"Oh," I said, nodding. They were loud so that everyone could hear them; being right next to them must have made conversation nigh impossible.

"Where is she now?" I asked, glancing around for the blonde girl.

"Her papa came," Fabrizio sighed. Judging from his tone of voice, her father was none too happy about her dancing with a strange boy she didn't even understand. Of course, he couldn't be blamed. "What about you?" he continued. "Are you a-having fun?"

I grinned. "Can't you tell?" I gestured to my appearance; a sheen of sweat was most likely glistening on my face and causing my blouse to stick to me. Thousands of curls had escaped from my plait and were also sticking to me with sweat. I could feel my red face and my heart pulse in my ears. "And you?"

Fabrizio nodded. "_Sì_, I am having a good time!"

"Hey, Angie," Jack shouted. "I think it's time you try one of these." He was holding out a cigarette.

"Yeh've never tried one before?" Tommy asked disbelievingly.

I shook my head dolefully as I took the proffered cigarette. "Nope. I'm only sixteen."

Tommy snorted. "Lass, I started smokin' at _fourteen_."

"Yeah, and I bet you drank whiskey from the cradle," I retorted.

Tommy threw back his head and laughed at this. I had heard this kind of remark made about Irish folks once before and was a little surprised to see that it didn't faze him; if something as simple as a _ship_ and its place of berth, offended him, I had thought that surely this comment would do the same. But he just grinned and said, "Aye, that's right. Now, lemme see yeh smoke yer first stick."

I felt all eyes at the table on me as Jack lit it and smirked at me. I inhaled the bitter smoke, all of my senses freezing for a moment…and coughed up a lung. It was _disgusting_! I can see why Tommy smoked them and possibly why Fabrizio smoked them; really, Italian whiskey is the most awful and bitterest stuff you'll ever taste. But why normal people smoked them was and still is beyond me. I heard the table erupt in laughter. I think I even heard someone pound the table with their fist because they were laughing so hard.

"I can't breathe," I gasped, dropping the cigarette. My vision was beginning to blur, so I didn't see who, but someone pushed a glass of beer in front of me. I drank it down greedily, trying to rid my throat of that _putrid_ taste. When I was able to see again, Bjorn was smoking my cigarette. Everyone was still red-faced and shaking from laughter.

"That was the most revolting thing I have ever tasted. And I've tasted a lot of revolting things," I announced, which only made them laugh harder. I was beginning to get frustrated. "How do you smoke those things?!"

"'Cause we're not pansies, that's why," Tommy snorted.

I didn't have a comeback for this.

After awhile, Jack pulled out a deck of cards, which Fabrizio, Tommy, Bjorn and I all looked at with interest. "The game, gentleman, is blackjack. Angie, you're not allowed to play."

I huffed. "And why not?"

"Because he knows yeh'll kick his sorry arse at it," Tommy laughed. "Let her play, Jack. I want to see this fer meself."

Jack groaned. "All right, but don't say I didn't warn you."

I smirked as Jack dealt the cards.


	7. Timmy McFarland

A/N: You know, it feels like it's been ages since I last updated, but it's been less than a week. Huh. Of course, this has been a very eventful week; today we're having a chili feast in English. Just…don't ask.

There will be some characters from the movie introduced here, along with some actual historical characters. If you know who they are, MAJOR kudos to you! If not, that's perfectly fine.

On a _somewhat_ unrelated note, I've been watching the _Titanic_ miniseries on YouTube; it's very historically accurate (MUCH more so than Cameron's version), but if you watch it, be prepared for some circumstances and characterizations that strain credulity to the max (quite honestly, I can't see anyone being determined enough to rape a woman and then rob cabins while the bloody ship is going down). Just a little suggestion if you're absolutely bored to tears.

On an _entirely_ unrelated note, I've finished _The Great Gatsby_ and I am still reeling from the ending. If you haven't read it, I highly suggest checking it out! Of course, it _was_ written by the love of my life, so…I may be slightly biased. Slightly.

In ANY case, here's the seventh chapter! Hope you enjoy!

Many thanks, as usual, go out to **Gaslight** and **hippogriff-tamer** for their wonderful reviews, and an advance thank-you to anyone else who kindly decides to review this time around!

* * *

"I cannot _believe_ I lost to yeh," Tommy declared, shaking his head as I collected the winnings: a few bills, some cigarettes and a button. Really, I have no idea who presented the button or even why they had it or even why any of us agreed that it was adequate for winnings, but still, it was something to flaunt.

"I _told_ you," Jack said in a long-suffering voice. "She does that every time."

"It is _pazzo_," Fabrizio added, looking somewhat put out.

"Aw, come on, Fabri," I laughed, leaving the winnings in a pile. Everyone was going to take their things back anyway—the betting pool was all for show. "Come dance with me!"

"What is it with you and dancing?" Jack asked as I pulled Fabrizio up out of his seat.

"Women love dancing," Tommy said seriously. "It's mad. Once they learn, they don't stop. They _always_ want to dance, they—"

"I get it, Tommy," I said, snatching his hat as I passed him. He whirled around to try and catch it, but I was quicker. "Fabri, catch!"

Fabrizio fumbled with it for a moment before lunging it at Olaus, who caught it with the hand not holding a beer. Olaus must have figured out what was going on, either because Bjorn was shouting at him or because Tommy was making a beeline for him. Either way, he tossed it to some random man dancing by. Tommy's battered bowler hat was soon passed to nearly everyone in the dining room. Fabrizio and I giggled ourselves silly as we danced around the room, evading Tommy's wrath and watching him try and get his hat back.  
"Oi, that's me bloody hat!" he howled as Jim Farrell, one of Tommy's roommates, caught the hat and spun away with Katie Murphy, who was laughing so hard she could hardly dance. Even Cora caught the hat at one point, darting under arms and between dancers. The hat finally came back to me, and Tommy nearly tackled me to get it.

"That's quite enough of that," he said triumphantly when he had finally pried the hat loose, putting it firmly back on his head. Then he gave me a rather disturbing look. "Yer in fer it now."

"No!" I shrieked, running. Many people began to laugh at me, which I thought unfair, considering that they had been laughing at Tommy's expense and applauding me only moments before. Tommy chased me all the way up to the poop deck, where he finally caught me from behind and told me that if I were his sister, he would spank me, but as it was, he would just "let me off with a warning."

"Oi, it's after hours, it is! Get back down below!" a crewman snapped at us.

Snorting, we returned to the party, where it seemed that everyone had forgotten about the hat incident. Jack, Fabrizio, Bjorn and Olaus had all started up a game of poker, which Tommy joined in on. Seeing as how I was always terrible at it, I sat and watched for a few dances until I started to get restless again. Jack must have noticed my fidgeting, for a moment later he said, "Look, Ang, if you're so bored, go dance."

"There's no one to dance _with_," I pouted.

"I ain't doin' it again," Tommy declared.

"I am actually winning!" Fabrizio said excitedly, giggling to himself. "I am not a-getting up until I a-win the whole game!"

The Swedes looked as if they had no intention of moving any time soon, so I huffed and crossed my arms over my chest.

"Dancing isn't all that _bad_, you know," I muttered. "It's fun. It's better than poker, anyway."

"Angie."

"What?"

"Please shut up."

"But I'm _bored_! I want to _dance_!" I said to Jack, knowing I sounded extremely childish but determined to impress my sentiments upon him.

After a moment, I felt a tentative poke in my back. I turned around to see a small boy standing meekly behind me. "Um, excuse me, miss, but…would you, would you dance with me?"

I beamed. "Well of _course_ I will!"

He grinned shyly as little children are prone to do as I took his hand and walked out to the dance floor. He awkwardly put his right hand on my hip and took my right hand with his left. I led, of course; I don't think he had ever danced before. He had probably only just watched, poor thing.

"And what's your name?" I asked.

"Timmy. Timmy McFarland," he said. I had to lean down to hear him over the noise, but I could hear a slight Irish lilt to his voice.

"I'm Angie Marshall," I returned. "Is this your first dance, Timmy?"

He nodded. "Yessum."

"Then I'll show you what to do."

I had to change things around a little bit, but soon I was spinning and twirling Timmy all over the place. The kid loved it; he laughed out loud and begged for more. Finally, he declared that he was too tired to move, so I settled him against my hip.

"Where's your family, Timmy?"

He looked around sullenly for a moment and then pointed hesitantly over to a table in the corner. "That's where Mommy and Nora are. But we don't have to go over there."

_Ah_. So he had given them the slip. "Well, I'd like to meet them," I said, heading for that table. Nora was a little older than Timmy, red-headed and speckled in freckles. Her feet were dangling from her chair as she clapped in time to the music. Mrs. McFarland was a red-headed woman covered in freckles who looked rather stern. For a moment, I was afraid she would chastise her son for running off.

"Timmy!" she exclaimed, standing up. "Where did yeh go?!"

"I was dancing, Mommy," he mumbled, not looking at all happy that he had been found out.

"Hello," I interjected, smiling in what I hoped was a winning manner. "I was dancing with your son."

Mrs. McFarland's sternness immediately faded into an apologetic expression. "I'm so sorry! Was he bothering yeh?"

I shook my head quickly, setting Timmy down. "Oh, no, not at all! We've had lots of fun, haven't we, Timmy?"

Timmy nodded fervently, obviously hoping I could get him out of trouble with his mother.

Mrs. McFarland smiled. "I'm glad. Kathleen McFarland."

"Angie Marshall," I returned, taking her outstretched hand.

"This is my daughter, Nora," Kathleen McFarland continued, resting a hand on her daughter's orange hair. I waved at Nora, who shyly waved back. It's cute how little children are so shy until they get to know you. Then they tell you more than you needed to know. "Well," Kathleen went on, "it's about time I put these two in bed. It was nice meeting yeh, Angie."

"You too, Mrs. McFarland."

She rolled her eyes as she began to shepherd her children away. "Please, Mrs. McFarland is me mother-in-law! Call me Kathleen or I'll start calling yeh Miss Marshall!"

I laughed. "If you say so."

Timmy waved at me before he was lost in a tangle of legs. I smiled to myself and returned to the table, where it appeared that Tommy had won the poker game.

"Who was your sweetheart there, Angie?" Jack teased as he dealt out the cards for another game.

"Ha, ha. His name is Timmy and he's adorable," I said sincerely, already starting to feel bored. I hated poker. A part of me thinks that the whole reason they were playing it was because I couldn't play and would probably be out of their way. I was the annoying kid who tagged along where she wasn't wanted. It was even worse that I was a girl surrounded by men—I pouted just to let them know how much I disliked the situation.

Bjorn stood up then and said something to me in Swedish, holding out his hand. He jerked his head towards the dancers as he talked and I realized he was asking me to dance. I beamed and popped up, taking his hand and allowing him to lead the way to where the other dancers were already spinning.

"Doesn't she ever sit still?" I heard Tommy ask as we walked away.

As I've said before, Bjorn is a wonderful dancer. I laughed and giggled as he spun me around every which way, all the while gabbling in Swedish. He even dipped me once, much to my delight. Since we had come in during the middle of that dance, we went on dancing for the second and third dances. By the time the band struck up a fourth tune, we were both tired and retreated back to the table, where Fabrizio had won the poker game.

"Now that she's good and tired, let's see if Angie will win at blackjack," Jack suggested, giving me a fiendish look.

"_Vad_?" Bjorn asked, which I had figured out earlier that night meant "what?"

"Blackjack!" I shouted over the noise. Of course we had to get a table near the band so that we couldn't hear a blasted thing.

He nodded eagerly, ready to play.

I actually lost this round. Tommy came away the victor, and boy did he let me have it.

"Excuse me, but I just got back from dancing _all night_, so I'm a little tired!" I argued, knowing it was futile as Tommy whooped and Jack and Fabrizio clapped his back in congratulations. I think Bjorn tried to console me, but of course I couldn't understand a word he was saying, so his efforts were in vain.

By now the fellas were tired of playing cards, so we sat and watched those who still had the energy to dance. I nearly fell asleep at the table, so exhausted was I from dancing. It was a relief when Bert tapped me on the shoulder, a sleeping Cora in his arms and her head lying on his shoulder. I yawned the entire way back to the Cartmells's cabin and I was so tired that I don't even remember getting into bed, but I must have, for the next morning I was in it, wearing my nightgown.

"Coo, we stayed out late last night," Emmy remarked, yawning widely.

"Is Bert gone already?" I asked, yawning as well and scratching the back of my head.

"Yes; he's always been an early riser," Emmy yawned again, shaking Cora, who was still asleep. "Cora, love, it's time to get up."

"Mmphbug," Cora mumbled. Or at least, that's what it sounded like.

I climbed down from my warm and comfortable bed, rummaging through my bag for some clothes. "What time is it?" I asked, yawning again.

"I have no idea," Emmy yawned. Was it just me, or were we only talking in yawns? She shook Cora again, less gently than before. "Cora, love, wake up."

Cora sat up and yawned as well before stumbling out of bed. It took the combined efforts of both Emmy and I to dress her, but finally we were all ready and we ambled wearily into the dining saloon for breakfast. Jack and Fabrizio had opted to sit at one of the long tables with Tommy, Bjorn, Olaus, and Bert, so we joined them there. Their eyes were slightly bloodshot and there were marks on their faces where they had laid their faces on their pillows and the pillows had left funny creases, but I'm sure I didn't look much better, so I refrained from teasing them.

As none of us had anything special to do that day, we accepted an invitation from Jim Farrell to go watch the first and second-class passengers on the poop deck. You see, for some reason, the upper classes seemed to find watching steerage passengers an amusing way to spend their days. Personally, I don't see what's so interesting; we were all dressed in tatty clothes and watching the children play games. But they goggled at us as if we were creatures in a zoo. So, we decided to return the favor and stare at _them_. I found that they didn't like this so well.

We reached the poop deck at about ten o'clock, giving us two hours until lunchtime. We congregated around the space of deck just below the second-class deck so that the first-class passengers would have a clear view of us and we of them. While the Cartmells took a stroll around the deck, Jack, Fabrizio, Tommy, Jim Farrell and I all pointed rudely at the first-class passengers, acting as if they couldn't see us. Some of them, the older ladies in particular, seemed extremely ruffled by this.

"Lucille, do you see those common people down below? I do think they're _ogling_ me!" one particularly snobby lady asked her companion loudly.

I nudged Jack and Tommy (for they were on either side of me) and said in a very loud voice with an extremely over-exaggerated English accent, "Oh, my, I think those ladies are staring at us! How _ghastly_!"

"_Shocking_, that is," Tommy said as seriously as he could, his ever-present cigarette twitching as he tried not to laugh out loud at the ladies' stunned expressions.

We imitated their voices for awhile afterwards until they finally said, "What nerve!" and stalked off, their noses so high in the air I feared they would walk into something. It vaguely occurred to me that they could have left much sooner, but I think they were trying to make us leave first, considering we were their "inferiors." Obviously, it did not work the way they had wished it to. Gradually, more and more first-class passengers appeared; it seemed that many of them liked to sleep in. Not that I was accusing them of anything; I had roused unwillingly that morning, and later than I normally did.

The sea air had once again made us hungry, so at twelve o'clock, we adjourned back to the dining saloon. The McFarlands were sitting at a table already, and Timmy anxiously waved me over. We were soon joined by the Gundersons and the Cartmells. We were quite the group—talking and laughing in different accents and, in the Gundersons's case, different languages. I noticed Fabrizio eyeing the blonde girl from the night before as she passed with her parents, and I would have said something had Jim not chosen that moment to ask me if it was true that I had choked on a cigarette the night before.

After successfully bruising Tommy's arm, I finished my lunch and went with the Cartmells to lie down for an hour or two. The party from the night before had worn me out, and the sea air didn't help at all. Luckily, all four of us felt extremely refreshed after our hour-long nap. Emmy insisted on staying to fix her hair; it had been mashed as she slept. I stayed with her and did the same, more out of politeness than because I was too concerned about my appearance, while Bert and Cora went off to the public room.

I had passed by the public room one or two times, but I had never actually gone into it. It was the brightest room in the third-class area, or so a kindly steward had told me. Speaking of stewards, although we steerage passengers did have our own stewards, we had less than the other classes and very few of them were patient with us. So far I had counted several different stewards, and I suspected that there were more that I hadn't seen and probably never would see. Stewardesses very rarely came down to us; they were normally stuffing women into whalebone and pinning up their hair and drawing baths. I should know; that's all I ever did at the hotel. I had tidied up more women than I did rooms.

But I digress. The public room, from what I had seen, was full of wooden benches and had a few tables off to the sides. There was even a piano, for I had heard someone plunking around on it earlier. The smoking room, according to Tommy (of course he had already been there) was very similar in design, but the smoking room was carpeted, dimmer than the public room, and had more tables and individual chairs than the public room. Typically women and children frequented the public room more than men, so Jack, Fabrizio and Tommy had not yet visited it as well.

When Emmy and I finally deemed our appearances satisfactory, we set off for the public room. She laughed that she had never walked so much in all her life ever since she had boarded the _Titanic_—apparently, she had only ever walked to the market once a week in Manchester. I sheepishly admitted that I had walked for most of my life; that is, the life I remember. I might have had a car in Pacific Grove, for all I know. But Emmy was quite interested to hear that I had almost always been on my feet when Jack, Fabrizio and I _weren't_ sneaking aboard trains.

Bert and Cora were, thankfully, sitting near the end of a bench that left some room for Emmy and me. Someone was noodling around on the piano and the whole room was buzzing with conversation in several different languages and accents. Bert and Emmy were content just to talk about nothing in particular, but Cora and I were restless, so I took her hand and we walked around the room. The McFarlands were sitting in the opposite corner as the Cartmells, which is why I hadn't initially seen them. Cora and Nora were delighted to find that their names rhymed and immediately began to make their dolls play with each other. This didn't suit Timmy too well; he begged and begged his mother to take him topside.

"I can take him," I offered. "I'm not one for sitting down."

Kathleen smiled. "If yeh don't mind…"

"Not at all," I assured her. In truth, I was eager to get going—while the public room was lovely and all, the deck was by far more interesting. So, after Kathleen had instructed Timmy to keep his hat and coat on and to stay close to "Miss Angie" and to listen to her, the two of us were free. I stopped to inform the Cartmells that I had not abandoned their daughter—she was just playing with another girl in the other corner. The Cartmells, being the lovely people they were, said that that was fine and for me to have fun. Really, they were _such_ nice people!

There was a set of stairs going right from the public room to the deck, so it was not long before we were in the salt-tinged fresh air. Timmy took my hand and ran around the deck, pointing out various clouds of steam from the funnels and seamen going about their duties and first-class ladies in their impossibly large hats. It was a wonder that they ever found hatboxes to accommodate those things, but no lady would ever purchase a hat that did not have a box, so it must have been possible.

It was not long before Timmy paused in the middle of the poop deck and suddenly pointed, an action I was growing steadily more accustomed to. "Aren't those the men you were sitting with last night?"

I looked up to where he was blatantly pointing and saw that Jack was indeed sketching something while Tommy was talking to Fabrizio, his cigarette in his mouth again. It occurred to me that the only times he had ever been without it was the one time we had danced and when he ate; other than those, he was never without it. Timmy was more than happy to go visit with them; he had already done everything he wanted, including romping with some of the dogs that a patient steward had been walking.

"We wondered where you'd gone," Jack said by way of greeting.

"Who's this?" Tommy asked, nodding at an uncharacteristically silent Timmy.

"This is Timmy McFarland," I said proudly, displaying the little boy. "Timmy, this is Tommy," Tommy flicked his cigarette. Lovely, "Jack," Jack smiled, returning to his sketch immediately, "and Fabrizio." Fabrizio was by far the kindest; he shook Timmy's hand, which delighted the little boy to no end. "What are you drawing?" I asked Jack, leaning back against the railing while Timmy asked Fabrizio if he was an Egyptian.

"No, no, I am Italian," Fabrizio explained, smiling. This wasn't the first time someone had mistaken Fabrizio for another nationality; he had been called an Egyptian, Greek, Armenian, Hispanic and even an Indian.

"O-o-o-o-oh," Timmy said, regarding Fabrizio with something like awe. Italians were generally said to be untrustworthy thieves, so Timmy seemed to find it incredible that such a nice man was an Italian.

"I'm drawing those girls right there," Jack answered me, jerking his head towards where two girls who had to be sisters were sitting by the railing, their legs poking through the rungs so that they were dangling over the sea and their arms resting on the bars of the railing. They were chatting away happily in what I think was French.

"So, is this where you've been this whole time?" I asked, flapping away the smoke from Tommy's cigarette. He smirked and dragged on his cigarette again.

"Pretty much," Jack said absent-mindedly, shading in their shawls.

"Where have _you_ been?" Tommy asked me.

I pushed a curl out of my face; despite the fact that Emmy and I had redone our hair just over an hour ago, running around on a windy deck with a little boy is bound to make one's hair fall out. "I went with the Cartmells back to the cabin for an hour, and then we went to the public room. Then I found Timmy and we came up here."

Tommy, deciding his cigarette was no longer satisfactory, flicked it into the ocean and lit up a new one. "What were yeh doin' in a cabin fer an _hour_?"

I hesitated, which caused Jack and Fabrizio to look up as well. I was turning red; admitting that I, Angie Marshall, had taken a nap like a child was like a man admitting he enjoyed women's fashions; his (or in this case, my) friends would take the mickey out of him (or me) for it.

"Well? What were you doing, Angie?" Jack asked.

I fiddled with a button on my coat. "I was taking a nap," I mumbled.

The lads exchanged smirks. Damn them.

"Aww, was widdle Angie sweepy?" Jack asked in a rather annoying baby-voice.

I groaned. "I was tired. And besides, it got me away from _you_ lot for awhile."

A chorus of "oohs" came up at this last comment.

"Aw, lass, that hurts," Tommy said in a voice that suggested it did nothing of the kind, clutching his chest as if pained.

"Sometimes Mommy makes me take a nap," Timmy piped up.

The others bit back snorts, turning away so that they wouldn't catch each other's eyes and burst out laughing. I was not amused.

"Come on, Timmy; let's get back to the public room," I suggested, beginning to shepherd him away.

"But, why?" he asked, thoroughly confused that we were leaving so soon.

"Um…I'm cold," I lied. In fact, I was quite the opposite; the lads' laughter at my expense was making me flush with indignity. But I didn't want to be laughed at any longer, so Timmy gallantly escorted me back to the public room. I say "gallantly" because he took it in his stride, trying to take my elbow like the gentlemen of first-class did and trotting back to the public room. When we got there, Kathleen apologized and said that it was time for the children to have a lie-down.

"But I don't _want_ to go!" Timmy protested, his lower lip jutting out most unattractively.

"Yeh'll go if yeh want to stay for the party tonight," his mother warned.

Timmy sighed loudly in a very annoyed manner before waving goodbye to me and slouching off after his mother and prim-and-proper sister. Cora was still there, and she and I returned to her parents.

"How is it outside?" Bert asked genially as we sat down.

I thought for a moment. "Windy," I finally decided. "It's lovely out, if you can avoid the wind."

He nodded happily. "Yes, yes, I heard it was supposed to be excellent weather. You know, I've even heard speculation that we might make it into the harbor on Tuesday night instead of Wednesday morning!"

I raised my eyebrows. "Are we really going that fast?"

He nodded. "So the steward says."

The stewards were generally experts in this area, so I took his word for it. At dinnertime, we were reunited with the three lads, whose hair was tousled from the wind and their cheeks somewhat red. Just as the last of the plates were being cleared away, Eugene Daly and his motley ensemble gathered together in the corner. His bagpipes flared to life just as the drum began to pound away and several bows went up in unison, playing upon well-tuned strings. My feet began to tap at once. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around.

"May I have this dance?"


	8. Dances and Dreams

A/N: Hey guys! I meant to post this chapter this morning, but I didn't edit it because a million and one things were going on (I got a car repossessed from a drug dealer, for one thing, and I learned to drive stick!), but I said I would update it on Mondays and goshdarnit I will!

Nothing much to report this time around, sorry. No special little tidbits about this or that. That I can think of, anyway.

On a personal note, wish me luck on Saturday; it's the SAT and I am NOT very confident that I'll make the impossibly high scores my friends made/are making!

A trillion thanks to **G. W. Failure, Roo, Gaslight** and **hippogriff-tamer** for reviewing last chapter; you lovely ladies are amazing!!!

* * *

Well, actually, it was Bjorn, so it came out more like, "May I heff dis dance?" But still, I was thrilled to hear my native tongue come out of his mouth.

"You can speak English!" I exclaimed, both pleased and trying to comprehend the situation at the same time.

He shrugged, a confused smile on his face, and pointed to Jack. He raised his beer glass, grinning broadly, and took a swig out of it. I grinned at Jack and then hopped up to my feet and took Bjorn's hand, following him to the center of the floor. We were one of the first couples to start dancing, so for the first dance, we had plenty of room to move around and generally do as we pleased. After a few dances, everyone began to crowd onto the floor. We made our way back to the table, where Jack and Fabrizio were cheering Tommy, who was having an arm-wrestling match with Olaus.

"Get him, Olaus!" I shouted as Bjorn cheered on his cousin in their own tongue.

"Yeh bloody traitor!" Tommy exclaimed. I'm sure he was joking, but it was difficult to tell as his face was screwed up. I laughed and cheered anyway as Tommy's hand slowly pushed down Olaus's. Bjorn said something and Olaus grinned, getting out of his seat and letting Bjorn take his place.

"Are yeh bloomin' jokin'?" Tommy asked in disbelief as Bjorn held out his hand, obviously ready to arm-wrestle.

"What, you're not weak, are you, Tommy?" a lot of us asked, laughing as he scowled once more. He dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it in with his toe. He took Bjorn's hand and they began to grapple. I cheered for both of them—Tommy when he was victorious and Bjorn when he was victorious. I think most of the others were doing the same—after all, they had certainly been on my side the night before when I had taken Tommy's hat, but they were on his side when he began to chase me. Even Cora joined us, watching in avid interest as Jack let her stand in front of him to see better.

When Bjorn won (Tommy was a bit sour of that), Cora tugged on Jack's shirt and asked if he would dance with her. He complied with enthusiasm, whirling her around gently due to her small size. I got Olaus to dance with me, and while I had lots of fun dancing with him, Bjorn was by far the better dancer. Olaus only danced one time with me; he was not as fond of it as I was. Bjorn asked me again in his halting English if I wanted to dance, which I did, so he put his hand on my waist and began to whirl me around with such ferocity that he nearly sent me crashing into a table.

When the dance had ended, we both stood for a moment, panting and laughing at our sweaty, out-of-breath states. A new song was being struck up and we were about to take off when Bjorn paused and turned around. Standing behind him was Timmy, tugging on his shirt. He looked shy, facing this tall and strong stranger, but his words were certainly bold. "I want to dance with her!"

Bjorn didn't understand. I was about to try and explain it (we were starting to be able to understand each other through a system of the strangest sign language I've ever seen) when Timmy pointed to me, repeating his words. The corners of Bjorn's lips rose in a smile and he winked at me, stepping aside with an overdone flourish. Timmy beamed and bounced forward, putting his right hand on my hip and grabbing up my right hand with his left. I had taught him well.

"Who was that?" he asked me, having to shout as I picked up my feet and began to dance.

"That was my friend Bjorn," I shouted back, winking at the aforementioned Swede as we passed.

"He's kinda scary-looking," Timmy admitted.

I shrugged. "I guess. But he's very nice. And a very good dancer. Almost as good as you."

Timmy beamed, taking this compliment as very high praise indeed. He kept up with me very well, but I didn't dare take him through some of the more complicated steps—knowing me, I would have probably sent him reeling into one of the poles or a table or even people. I twirled him once or twice, and he did not seem to mind the fact that only a few couples over, Jack was doing the same to Cora—a _girl_. When the dance was over, Timmy declared that he wanted to dance again, so we galloped around the room once more, laughing.

"You're very good at this!" I told him, truly meaning it. Most children his age would be a good deal clumsier, but he very rarely stumbled.

"Thank you! So are you!" he returned; surely his mother's influence was beginning to show in him. When the dance was over, he declared that while he still wanted to dance, his feet were much too sore. So I picked him up, my left hand holding him up against me, and I kept my right hand interlaced with his left. It was a bit awkward, dancing this way, but I soon got the hang of it. Timmy, for his part, was having the time of his life. I saw some appreciative looks from other people, most of whom were of the female persuasion and therefore prone to find it sweet.

When the dance ended, I was exhausted, especially after carrying around a four-year-old boy for a whole dance. I took him with me back to the table and sat him on my lap as Tommy pushed a beer over my way. Everyone who was gathered around the table just talked and laughed for awhile. Timmy didn't seem to mind in the slightest; his feet dangled from where he was sitting on my lap, jiggling in time to the music. Maggie, Eugene Daly's kind-faced wife, managed to find a glass of milk for him, which only increased his good mood. Tommy swore a few times, as he always did, but Timmy didn't notice; he was too busy staring at the dancers.

During this time, Maggie Daly introduced me to her friend, Bertha Mulvihill, who was traveling with the Dalys and on her way to meet her fiancé in Rhode Island. Bertha was twenty-four and rather pretty; she had a fair share of Irishmen asking her for a dance now and then. Bertha had already been to the States and was returning from a wedding at her hometown of Athlone in County Westmeath (wherever that is) when her family's neighbors, the Dalys, offered to accompany her back to America. That's something I've always loved about the Irish folks I've met since _Titanic_; they place a great emphasis on togetherness and never leaving one of their own to fend for themselves. That trait would prove to be extremely important on this voyage; but I'm getting ahead of myself now.

After awhile, it was decided that we should play blackjack. I showed Timmy what I was doing so that he would know how to play. I don't think he actually understood the finer points of the game, but he asked loads of questions and seemed genuinely interested. I won, of course. Oh, that sounds haughty, doesn't it? Let me rephrase that: As the others had been drinking and smoking all night, their minds were a bit muddled. I, however, had only had one and a half glasses of beer and no cigarettes, so naturally, I had the clearer head and therefore won the game. Not to mention that I've always been better at it than they have.

"Shite," Tommy cursed, glowering at me. I gave him a warning look.

Timmy glanced between the two of us. "What does 'shite' mean?"

Jack and Fabrizio exploded with laughter while Tommy and I turned red.

"It is a word that only grown-up men are allowed to use," I finally invented.

Timmy nodded, wide-eyed. "_Oh_."

Jack got up, stretching. "I'm goin' up; gonna get some fresh air before curfew."

We all nodded and said something or other along the lines of, "All right, see you soon." We didn't think much of it at the time, but we didn't see him for the rest of the night. Since Jack was gone, we had now lost the one person who seemed able to communicate with anyone, despite their nationality, so many of us began to dance again. Fabrizio disappeared as well; I later caught a glimpse of him dancing with the blonde-haired girl. I danced a few more rounds with Timmy before Kathleen wove her way into the crowd and said that the hour was late—she needed to get her children into bed.

I didn't know what time it was, but my head felt a bit fuzzy and Timmy was yawning widely every few seconds. He protested, albeit half-heartedly, and finally agreed to hug me goodnight and then follow his mother and sister back to their cabin. With that, I returned to the table.

"Aw, had to say goodnight to yer beau?" Tommy asked, laughing as I smacked his arm.

"He's a better dancer than you are," I retorted.

Tommy's grin vanished. "Oh, I don't think so."

He was joking, of course, but the swiftness with which he had changed facial expressions caught me off-guard. Before I could register what was going on, he had spirited me away from the table and was spinning me so viciously around the room I would have stumbled had it not been for his strong arms. I even shrieked a little, clinging tightly to him so that I really wouldn't fall.

"_Now_ who's the better dancer?" he asked when the dance had ended and I had finally plunked back into my chair.

"You are evil, Tommy Ryan!" I gasped, clutching a stitch in my side. His only response was to laugh. I really _was_ worn-out from his dance, though, and he made up for it by getting us a couple more beers. I drank greedily, my tongue burning pleasantly from the bite. I finally caught my breath again and my heart returned to normal. Cora was giggling at something silly Fabrizio was telling her (the blonde girl's parents must have intervened again), and that was when I noticed that Jack was missing.

"Where's Jack?" I asked loudly.

Everyone shrugged, none of them looking too concerned. I was disappointed; we hadn't danced at all tonight. I didn't have long to wallow in self-pity, however; Bjorn, who never seemed tired, now that I think on it, asked again, "May I heff dis dance?"

Two more dances with him and I was too tired to stand up much longer. Cora was nodding off at our table, so, after bidding the others goodnight, the two of us headed over to Bert and Emmy, both of whom were also ready for bed. Cora accepted a piggy-back ride from her father while Emmy and I fell into step behind them.

"Has anyone seen Uncle Jack?" Cora asked sleepily.

I raised my eyebrows, turning to Emmy. "'Uncle Jack?'"

Emmy smiled. "Besotted," she said in a low voice so that Cora couldn't hear. Not that she would have been able to if Emmy had been speaking normally; poor Cora drifted off mere moments after inquiring as to Jack's whereabouts. "Of course, Cora never had any brothers or sisters, so it's only natural. She adores you too, you know."

I felt surprised and somewhat guilty at that. "Does she?"

Emmy nodded. "Mm. But she seems to show it a bit more with Jack."

"Well, I am usually running around. I can't sit still for long," I pointed out, shrugging. "And besides, I don't know of many people who _aren't_ enchanted by Jack."

Emmy laughed appreciatively at this. "Oh, I can't help agreeing with you there. He's certainly a charmer, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is," I mused, yawning.

* * *

Jack was walking towards me down one of the white-painted, illuminated hallways.

"Where were you last night?" I asked.

He came up very close to me, standing mere inches away from me. My body was tingling; my breath was coming hard.

"I was thinking."

"O-o-o-okay," I said uncertainly, trying to move back a step and finding myself unable to.

"About you."

Well, this was certainly a change. I stammered out (yes, _stammered_), "Oh, um, were you?"

He nodded. The intensity of his eyes was almost frightening. He took a step closer, if at all possible. "Angie, I love you. I've _been _in love with you for years, ever since we met in Monterey. I was insanely jealous over Yves and Pablo…you wouldn't even believe. It about drove me crazy. And now, on this Ship of Dreams, I can't keep hiding it."

My heart thudded loudly as he brushed some stray curls behind my ear. I barely felt it, so caught up was I in staring at him. I felt dizzy; I couldn't focus properly on his face. Was I swooning?

"Angie," he whispered, leaning forward. Instinctively, I closed my eyes as I knew his lips neared mine. "I love you…"

It was then that I felt that hard jerk of consciousness. It took me a moment in my disoriented state to realize what exactly was going on. I was lying in a rather comfortable bed, I was hot, my heart was threatening to burst from my chest, the joint between my legs was tingling (at the moment, I attributed it to a dire need to relieve myself) and I felt stuck. Further examination indicated that the reason I felt stuck was because I was impossibly entwined in the bedsheets. I had been dreaming it. Damn it.

"Awake so soon, Angie?"

Looking down and rubbing my bleary eyes (I felt some of the disgusting crusty stuff fall off as I did so), I realized Bert was talking to me. Luckily, he was dressed—he was just grabbing his cap. I absentmindedly ran a hand through my no doubt disheveled hair, realizing I must have looked horrible.

"Oh, um, I just had a…a very pleasant dream, and then what I wanted disappeared, and I woke up." While I didn't mind explaining the basis of my dream to Bert, who was a lovely chap, I didn't want to go into details; there was a dirty-feeling tingle between my legs (and it wasn't just a dire need to relieve myself) that made me feel absolutely ashamed of myself.

Bert nodded knowingly. "Ah, yes; I've had that happen _many_ times! Why, just the other evening, I dreamed that I was enjoying the most _scrumptious_ lemon curry when suddenly I woke up and found out that I was chewing my pillow."

I laughed. Well, my dream hadn't been _quite_ like that, but his addition to the conversation made me feel a good deal less disoriented and much more awake. The unpleasant tingling was beginning to ebb away. "Are you going off to breakfast, then?"

He nodded. "Yes; I'll be sure and see to it that the lads save you girls seats."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it. "I'll probably be in soon, now that I'm awake."

"So, the party didn't tucker you out too badly last night?" he asked, chuckling.

I smiled again. "I'm not as tired as I was yesterday. I suppose that's a good thing."

"Very good," he agreed. "It means you're getting used to the sea air." He checked his pocket-watch. "Well, I'd best be off if we want a place to sit and eat."

"All right. See you in a bit, then," I said by way of parting, waiting until the door was firmly shut before I untangled myself from the sheets. It would have been bad enough for a man I was in no way related to to see me unwinding a sheet from around my legs, but the fact that my nightgown had ridden up to my waist didn't help much either. I wondered if I had been thrashing in my sleep; I remember lying down on my back the night before and that my legs had felt like lead, so I hadn't moved them voluntarily.

I could have easily gone back to sleep for a few more minutes, but now that I had moved around and whatnot, I was too awake and so climbed down from the top bunk. Cora and Emmy were still fast asleep; the nap yesterday must not have done them much good. After returning from an urgent trip to the water-closet, I dressed, not bothering to be quiet; Emmy had to wake up sooner or later, and I would rather her wake up without me having to poke and prod her and say in a cooing voice, "Emmy, time to wake u-u-u-up!"

Sure enough, as I was buttoning my blouse, she rolled over and yawned, shielding the light from her eyes. "Awake already, Angie, love?"

"Yes," I replied, smoothing out the front of my blouse. "Bert left not too long ago."

"Did he wake you up?" Emmy asked, chuckling as she pulled herself off the top bunk she shared with her husband.

"No; a dream did."

Speaking of said dream, I knew I wouldn't be able to face Jack that day. Or at least, face him without flinching and thinking of that dream. I _hated_ having dreams like that, but this was by far the worst of them; it had set certain senses on fire. In my time, I've had plenty of strange dreams; I had had one of Yves wearing a lady's dress and hat as he operated the lifts. I had had one of Fabrizio belting out a loud opera aria while Jack and I waltzed. I had even had one of Pablo dancing around in only his trousers with a rose between his teeth. I can't really explain that last one, although I'm sure the famed Dr. Freud would have a perfectly logical reason for it. In any case, all of these dreams paled in comparison to the one where Jack almost kissed me and sent my girlhood buckling.

As Emmy dressed and I attempted to pin up my hair (I say attempted because it took several tries before I got it just right) and Cora stirred slightly in her bed, I hesitated and then asked, "Emmy, have you ever had a dream…a somewhat…disturbing dream…and it's about a person, and when you wake up, you know you won't be able to look that person in the eye for the rest of the day?"

Emmy paused in the process of pulling on her blouse. "Oh, darlin'," she said in a soft voice that indicated she knew precisely what I was talking about, "I know just what that feels like. It's awful, isn't it?"

I nodded, relieved that someone else knew how I was feeling.

"I once had one about Bert, back before we were good and proper sweethearts. I won't say what it was now, but…it certainly made me a right bit shyer around him."

"I don't want to go," Cora mumbled, rolling over in her sleep.

Emmy and I stifled giggles for a moment before I gently jiggled Cora's arm. "Cora? Cora, honey, wake up. Mummy's almost dressed."

Cora blinked and looked around before realizing that, yet again, she was the last one to wake up. Grumbling, she got out of bed and shimmied into her clothes, allowing her mother to brush her hair until it gleamed. By this time, both Emmy and I were fully dressed and all done up, so we all set off for the dining saloon. True to his word, Bert had secured three empty places for us near our enlarged group; now, our group consisted of the three Cartmells, the three McFarlands, the two Gundersons, Eugene and Maggie Daly, Bertha Mulvihill, sort of Jim Farrell (he mostly talked to another group, but sometimes he joined in our conversation), Tommy, Jack, Fabrizio and of course myself. It was rather like a family—a large, strange family, but a family nonetheless.

It was hard to believe that this was only the fourth day of our journey. Well, the third for Tommy, Jim, the Dalys and Bertha, all of whom had boarded in Queenstown on the eleventh. But it any case, even though it had been such a short amount of time, it had felt like weeks. I was growing fond of each and every one of these people sitting with us. It would be difficult when we got to America; what would happen to them? I might never see them again. And it wasn't as if we could write; Jack, Fabrizio and I moved around so much that we would never get their letters. Not to mention that the Gundersons couldn't even speak English, let alone write in it.

I have to admit that I was close to choking up. I hid it by swallowing some water and laughing loudly when Jim took Tommy's hat while Tommy's back was turned. He interrogated each of us for a good while before Jim slipped it back to Tommy's side when he had turned to ask me, "Are yeh _sure_ yeh didn't steal it again, yeh little thief?"

Meanwhile, I was avidly avoiding Jack's eye. I don't think he really noticed; there were so many of us that it wasn't unusual for two people to not talk directly to one another over the course of one meal. I prayed that I wouldn't have to look at him, at least not while the dream kept reenacting itself over and over in my head.

Unfortunately, fate was not on my side that day.

"So, Jack, where were yeh last night? Yeh disappeared fer a long while," Tommy noted through his eggs.

Jack swallowed his orange juice; he had a funny look on his face. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

Well, of course this made us all ten times more curious, so we plied him for information before he caved in. "Well, uh, see, I was up on the poop deck, and this girl came running by."

"I've heard this one before," Tommy interrupted, causing all of us to laugh heartily.

Jack grinned. "Uh-huh. Well, anyway, she was a first-class passenger, and she ran straight for the railing."

"What was a first-class lady doing on the poop deck?" Emmy asked, puzzled.

"And why did she run straight for the railing?" Bertha asked.

Jack ran a hand through his hair. "Well, see, she was about to jump over."

He was met with disbelieving silence before most of us snorted. "That's a good one, Jack!"

"No, I'm serious," he protested, sounding a little annoyed. "She was trying to kill herself."

Some of us fell silent while a few others still chuckled.

"So then I convinced her not to jump, and she was turning around to climb back over when she slipped on her dress and I had to pull her up, and when some crewmembers found us, we were in a bad-looking situation."

All of us _did_ laugh at this. Well, except for the Gundersons; not understanding English, they were having a heated argument, gesturing at their plates. I think it had something to do with sausage, but I don't speak Swedish, so I haven't the faintest idea.

"Oh, really? What happened next?" I hooted, still laughing.

Jack's smile was still in place, but it looked a little forced now. I couldn't imagine why, though. "They called up her fiancé, who nearly had me arrested, and then she lied and said it was an accident, so they invited me to dinner tonight."

I'm sure our table must have caused attention, what with the way most of us exploded in laughter. A piece of ham flew off of Jim's fork and landed in Katie Murphy's lap. I was actually clutching my ribcage. It was one of those things when it only sounds sort of funny when someone's retelling it, but you have to be there to really laugh.

"What did she look like, Jack?" I prodded, hiccupping. It should be noted that laughing and orange juice cause hiccups.

Jack, seeing that none of us believed his story, just smiled and drank some coffee. "She had this amazing red hair."

Tommy paused in the process of loading bacon onto his plate. "Red hair? Cor, yeh don't mean that lass from the other day, do yeh?"

The red-headed first-class girl? Oh, it all made sense now. Jack had been trying to be funny and trick us; none of us believed his false story, so he grasped for straws and thought of the first girl he could; the one we had seen earlier. I felt sorry for him, really.

Jack just shrugged. "Well, when I don't show up at dinner tonight, don't be surprised."

"Jack, with your stomach, if you fell off of the ship you would swim back to it and climb back on just to eat."

My remark was met with laughs. It was true; Jack, like most young men, could tuck away a feast for a king and still ask for more. Jack rolled his eyes, smile still intact, and finished up his sausage. Olaus quite suddenly threw a piece of bacon at Bjorn. Apparently, he had lost the argument about sausage and retaliated by throwing a piece of bacon. At least, that's the most logical explanation I could and still can come up with.


	9. An Angel

A/N: So, I was kind of afraid that I would be fatigued after the SAT, and while it was enormously tedious, it was not…very challenging. Or at least, not as bad as I thought it would be. Point being, I was not too tired to edit this chapter for the fiftieth time and post it!

I'm not sure if anyone realized yet, but Kathleen McFarland is supposed to be the Irish mother telling her two children (whom I have named Timmy and Nora) a story to make them sleep while the ship was sinking. Eugene Daly, the bloke with the bagpipes, was a real passenger, but due to his relationship with the woman in the movie (they kiss in a very matrimonial way), I had to change Maggie Daly from his cousin (which she was in real life) to his wife. But I must give props to James Cameron for looking up the fact that Eugene was accompanying two ladies to America.

It has also come to my attention from a very dear friend that I've been focusing a little too much on the dancing. I'm very glad it was pointed out to me, because rereading it, I realized that I _was_ spending rather a lot of time on the parties. I've cut most of the unnecessary parts, but I'm afraid there's still rather a lot of dancing, mainly because there are some conversations essential to the plot (or subplots, rather) during the parties.

I think I should also mention that there is a deleted scene in this chapter, one that I feel James Cameron really should have left in the movie.

Now, to conclude this very long author's note, I will give ENORMOUS thanks to the following for reviewing: **hippogriff-tamer, armygurl07, Gaslight **and **Megfly**!

* * *

Nothing of particular interest happened that morning. The excellent weather continued, so I took Cora, Timmy and Nora up to the deck for them to run around. I followed them at a considerably slower pace, not wanting to interrupt their fun unless it was to tell them they were annoying the gentleman over there and they nearly bowled over that poor lady and please don't bother Mr. Daly while he's playing his pipes and would they please keep their voices down?

For a fleeting moment after they had given me abashed looks, I feared that I had turned into Kathleen. Not that Kathleen was a horrible person or anything—I just didn't want to turn into a stern matron who constantly scolded children. They already thought I was too old to play with them (it's not as if I minded people staring at me; I would probably never see them after this voyage); I didn't need them to think I was twenty years older.

Jack, Fabrizio, Tommy, Bjorn and Olaus all set up a card game on the deck, making sure to stay out of the wind so that they wouldn't lose any of the cards. I don't know why, but Jack seemed insistent on staying outside that morning. "It's good weather and I don't wanna waste it," he declared every time someone asked him why he simply didn't move it to the smoking room or even the public room.

Come to think of it, Jack was acting strangely all day. He had practically bolted out of the dining saloon to go on deck after breakfast, and he had staunchly refused to go back inside. Yes, the weather was perfectly lovely and all, but we had had wonderful weather for the whole voyage and it wasn't as if it was a new concept. On top of this, Jack kept glancing up at the upper decks. The others were starting to get impatient; when I wandered over to see the progress of their poker game while the three children all sat on a bench, worn out, Tommy gruffly asked Jack why he was "so bloody bent on stayin' out in the bleedin' wind."

"It's nothin'," Jack assured us, dragging on a cigarette. He glanced up again.

Fabrizio noticed. "Jack, if you a-want to draw a-someone, go ahead and quit. We do not a-care."

"Aye," Tommy agreed, staring so intensely at his cards that I thought he was trying to burn a hole in them.

"I'm not—" Jack paused and then smiled, shaking his head. "Okay, you win. I'll go."

The lads didn't mind starting over—according to Fabrizio, the game was a real _puttana_.  
"The bloody hell does that even mean?" Tommy asked, starting to get annoyed that he was the only English-speaker among our group who didn't know the word _puttana_.

"Haven't you ever heard Fabri use it before?" I asked, satisfied that I knew something Tommy didn't. "You know, a _figlio di puttana_—"

"I have never heard of a fuggy putty before."

I had to step to the side and hang onto the railing for support because I was laughing so hard. Fabrizio, who had never, ever used the term "son of a bitch," (never in English, that is; he said it quite liberally in his native tongue) tried to explain it to Tommy—but he only succeeded in confusing the Irishman even more. Jack had already gotten up and moved to the side, staring up at the decks, most likely trying to figure out how best to approach the sketch.

"Mate, I don't bloody know what the hell yer tryin' to say. A Figgie Puddin'? And what the hell is so funny, Angie?"

I was laughing so hard that I wasn't even making a sound. Cora, Timmy and Nora were all staring at me, unsure of whether or not I was trying to be funny or if there was something seriously wrong with me. When I had finally caught my breath, collapsed into giggles again, caught my breath again, and then collapsed into one more fit of giggles, I finally calmed down enough to explain just what _figlio di puttana_ was Italian for. He seemed to warm to the phrase instantly and even tried it out a few times. I'm afraid that his coarse Irish brogue spouting out Italian curses made me dissolve into yet one more fit of giggles, at which point there was a painful stitch in my side.

Now that Jack was avidly sketching off to the side, the lads had no real reason to stay outside, so they moved their card game into the smoking room. I returned to the children, who all seemed relieved that I had _not_ been suffering from an epilepsy fit (Nora had seriously been inquiring as to whether or not one of them ought to fetch a wooden spoon). We had not been playing a chasing game for five minutes when Timmy stopped and declared, "I'm hungry."

"Lunch should be soon," I replied, even as my stomach growled. "Oh, goodness," I said, putting a hand to my murmuring stomach. It growled again in displeasure. I stopped a gentleman walking by. "Excuse me, sir, do you have the time?"

He gave me a strange look and walked on hurriedly. Damn all these people who couldn't understand English.

"Angie, is it time to eat yet?" Cora asked, her voice sounding somewhat whiny.

I shrugged. "I dunno; hold on a minute."

It took a good long while, but finally I found a passing officer who was walking beside Officer Crisp! Now, don't ask me what two officers were doing near the poop deck, but I suppose they all have their duties. It's not as if I would know—I had only helped in the kitchens on the tramp steamers, so I had no idea what was required of whom. "Excuse me, sirs, but do either of you have the time?"

I don't know if it was just the man himself or White Star Line officers in general, but the older version of Officer Crisp smiled politely, made a little bow as if I were a real lady and pulled a golden pocket-watch out of his pocket. "It is precisely twelve-thirteen, according to my watch," he said in a crisp yet not unkind voice. I remember that he had a very distinctive voice, one that I had yet to find a match to. I also remember that he seemed a true gentleman and that I felt almost abashed in his presence.

I smiled and thanked the officer before informing the children that it was indeed time to eat and following them into the dining saloon. Kathleen and the Cartmells were already there, all three of them looking relieved when their red-cheeked and windblown children showed up. We were joined not long afterwards by Fabrizio, Tommy and the Gundersons.

"Who won?" I asked, digging into my mashed potatoes.

"Bjorn did," Tommy said shortly, chewing his ham so viciously that he could have easily bitten off his tongue.

"Why d'you suppose Jack wanted to play outside?" I asked; although I had told myself to avoid him today due to my dream, I couldn't help but wonder about him. Jack never played cards outside—he always liked playing them somewhere where there was always a glass of beer or two nearby and he was surrounded by a thick blanket of cigarette smoke. Out on a deck was just…odd.

"To enjoy the _weather_, of course," Tommy said in disgust. "If yeh ask me, he was tryin' to find that red-haired first-class lass from the other day. Probably thought he could make us believe his story, or some shite like that."

I pursed my lips as I cut up some ham; I didn't like the idea of Jack going out of his way just to catch a glimpse of another woman. I knew I was being stupid—after all, Jack had visited brothels many times to draw the women there, and he never acted as if he was enamored of any one of them. Well, except for that one-legged prostitute's hands. That was a bit strange. But the idea of him thinking of another woman…well, it made my blood boil, to be honest. I know now that I was just a foolish young girl with my heart set on an older boy, but at the time, I was convinced that it was extremely important.

I was trying to find a way to word the question, "Did Jack say anything about her?" without trying to give away the fact that I was in love with Jack. It simply wouldn't do for _Tommy Ryan_ of all people to hold a secret that he could use as blackmail against me. I would sooner jump off the _Titanic_ than do that. Just as I was rephrasing it in my mind, Jack sauntered into the saloon, his sketchpad under his arm.

"Speak o' the devil," Tommy noted, loud enough for Jack to hear.

"Huh?" Jack asked, sitting down. "What's this about me?"

"We were just talking about what a pansy you are," I said calmly, sipping my water.

"That's interesting," Jack replied without missing a beat, "me and Jim were just talking about how much you look like a guy."

Tommy and Fabrizio roared with laughter.

* * *

After lunch, we settled in the public room. Jim Farrell sat in the corner, noodling around on the piano while being surrounded by a group of admirers. He mostly plunked out small repetitive tunes, but it gave the public room a pleasant atmosphere. Many people were still eating lunch, so we had no trouble finding seats. Kathleen and the Cartmells sat in a relatively quiet corner, most likely discussing the various aspects of being a parent. That was the only thing I could imagine they _would_ talk about; other than being parents and being natives of Great Britain (although Kathleen detested the thought of her fair Ireland being considered part of British territory), they had absolutely nothing in common.

Cora, Timmy and Nora, obviously finding the conversation their parents were having boring, wandered over to where Jack, Fabrizio, Tommy and I were all gathered, talking about nothing in particular. Before much time had passed, Cora nestled close to Jack's side and the two of them began drawing funny faces on a blank page in his sketchbook. As I watched them, I couldn't help thinking that Jack would make a wonderful father. This brought my mind, once again, to the dream, and I felt myself growing hot in the face. I allowed myself to imagine for a moment that Jack was sitting with _our_ daughter instead of Cora, before banishing the thought from my mind and turning my attention to Timmy and Nora.

Before long, the room began to fill up. Families and traveling companions scooted into seats, keeping as closely-knit as they could. Children, mostly boys, began to chase each other around the room while weary parents chatted and only occasionally ordered their offspring to behave. Stuffy-looking matrons (even steerage has stuffy old matrons) knitted as they complained about their dreamy daughters or their impossible sons or their good-for-nothing husbands. I think I even heard one woman complain about her ridiculous sister, who had a skin condition that made her bitter.

As we were talking and inevitably scooting in closer to make room (it got to the point where Tommy snagged a chair from one of the tables and sat it in front of Jack), the blonde girl entered with her parents. They looked dismayed at the lack of space as they slowly made their way through the room, trying to find _some_ place to sit. Fabrizio sprang up and caught the attention of the blonde girl, motioning to a seat just behind where he had been sitting before. Since Fabrizio was like a brother to me and I had not yet seen him truly flirt with a girl, I convinced Timmy and Nora to come with me to the table where Bjorn and Olaus were playing cards so that the girl's parents could sit. Nora wanted to watch us play blackjack very much, which the Gundersons had no objections to. I glanced behind me and grinned; it had worked. The blonde girl's parents were sitting beside Jack, looking somewhat disgruntled as their daughter talked to Fabrizio. Or tried to—she couldn't understand Fabrizio.

Now that Jack was preoccupied with Cora, Fabrizio was attempting to talk to the blonde girl, and I was playing blackjack with Bjorn and Olaus, Tommy had no one to talk to and made quite a point of it by bellyaching loudly.

"You can always play blackjack with us, y'know," I told him when he had ambled over, complaining.

"And lose again?" Tommy scoffed. "Nah, I'd rather not, if it's all the same ter yeh."

"Then stop whining to me about it. Hit me!" I declared.

"Why do you want someone to hit you?" Nora asked, genuinely perplexed at such a declaration.

In the end, Jack handed Tommy a sheaf of drawings that he had made of various passengers. Tommy twisted and turned in his seat, glancing around to find the originals. I know because he shoved a drawing in my face after a few minutes and said, "_Tell_ me they don't look alike!"

After recovering from the initial shock of having a charcoal portrait shoved in my face, I examined the drawing and then looked around to find the unwitting model. Sure enough, an exact, colored replica of the laughing girl in the picture was sitting a few benches back, flirting with a bearded man who looked to be a few years older than her. I shrugged. "Yeah, Jack's really good."

Tommy seemed somewhat upset that I wasn't seeing the amazement of it all. "It's…it's dead-on! I've never seen anyone draw this good before!"

Tommy was right; Jack _was_ amazing. But thinking about Jack's wonderful talent made me remember that dream—something I did _not_ want to do. "Yes, well, when you've known him for as long as I have, you get used to it. Hit me."

"Bust," Olaus groaned.

After Tommy had returned to his seat, looking around for more likenesses to compare, the Cartmells stopped by.

"We're going to take Cora back to the cabin for a nap; do you want to come?" Emmy asked.

I shook my head. "No, thanks, I think I'll stay here."

The Cartmells said that this was fine and that they would be in the cabin for the next hour or so if I needed anything. Once more, I have to marvel at the sweetness of these people—they were treating me like a royal guest and I felt somewhat guilty that my own kindnesses were so meager in comparison to theirs. I heard Bert say, "Cora, it's time to go now; say goodbye to Uncle Jack."

"Bye, Uncle Jack," Cora's soft little voice said.

"Bye, Cora!" Jack returned.

They had not been gone one minute when a hush suddenly fell over the vast and open room. I twisted in my seat and finally found the source of the silence. My mouth fell open. Entering into the _steerage public room_ was the red-headed first-class lady that Jack had stared shamelessly at the other day. The red-headed lady that Jack had claimed to have prevented from suicide. Maybe…no, that story _couldn't_ have been true—could it?

She was in a yellow dress with a white collar, sleeves and shoulders and yellow-gold embroidery along the bosom. Her rose-red hair was swept into a bun that reminded me strongly of a princess, or the likenesses of Roman goddesses that I had seen in Italy. A tiny purse hung from her wrist; she was definitely a first-class lady, through and through. As she ventured into our midst, a somewhat forced smile on her face, people turned and shamelessly stared at her. Men who had been leaning against poles straightened up immediately. The males in the room, even the little boys, tipped their hats respectfully. And she kept walking. Walking towards what? And suddenly, it hit me.

She came to a halt in front of Jack, who looked somewhat stunned to see her, but definitely not as stunned as the rest of us. Maybe…hell, maybe he _was_ telling the truth. As she stopped in front of him, Tommy looked her up and down. It was a very, very good thing she was focusing on Jack—if she had seen the way Tommy was eyeing her, she probably would have run away and warned the rest of her little friends about slumming. Some first-class passengers had gone "slumming" with us before, but only to the decks. No one had yet ventured into the public room as this red-headed girl was doing now.

"Hello, Mr. Dawson," she said in the most refined, melodic voice I had ever heard. Jim struck up the same tune on the piano again and the conversations started up anew, albeit somewhat quieter and more reserved than before.

"Hello again," Jack said in a quiet kind of voice. _Again_? Damn, they really _had_ met before!

She hesitated, her eyes darting nervously around the room. "May I speak with you?"

I couldn't hear _everything_, thanks to Jim's stupid piano-playing. But I'm positive that Jack said, "Yeah" as he gestured to the bench. We were all staring shamelessly, but then again, we had every reason to. Seeing a first-class passenger—a _lady_, no less—down with us was like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs; it had been done, but it was always fascinating to watch.

"In private?" the woman asked quickly. I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed; so she wasn't going to stay with us. Oh well; at least we had seen her come into our midst, which was a miracle in itself.

"Yes, of course," Jack replied, sounding almost…_amused_. Like the whole thing was funny. Maybe it was; at the time, I only felt in awe. The only thing I found funny about the situation was the fact that Tommy's eyes were level with her bosom, and he wasn't taking any pains to move them.

"After you," Jack continued, picking up his sketchbook. She looked only too happy to comply—she had looked ready to bolt. Jack hit Tommy's shoulder on the way out. Tommy and Fabrizio exchanged glances before bursting into that stupid, boyish laughter that we women find so irritating. Bjorn was asking me something, but damn it, now was not the time for me to try to understand Swedish. I jumped out of my seat and scurried over to where Tommy and Fabrizio were still laughing.

"What the _hell _was that all about?!" I asked. If they were laughing, surely they knew something.

"Who knows?" Tommy snorted.

I frowned. "Seriously, fellas; who was that girl? And how does she know Jack?"

"Well, she's the one he was staring at the other day, remember?" Tommy asked, still chuckling as Fabrizio turned back to the blonde girl, making more fruitless attempts at a conversation.

"Yes, I know that, but it still doesn't explain _how_ they met," I persisted.

"Well, it's obvious, innit?" Tommy asked, examining a sketch of Timmy and Nora.

"Um…no, not really," I said grudgingly; I hated whenever Tommy knew something that I didn't. Behind me, I heard Kathleen collecting her rebellious children ("But Mommy, an _angel_ just came down here! Did you see her?! I don't _want_ to take a nap now!").

Tommy cocked an eyebrow, a smirk making its way onto his face. "Well, he stopped her from jumpin' off the back o' the ship, didn't he?" Tommy asked, his smirk widening.

I hit his arm. "Shut up." I bit my lip. "You don't really think that's how they met, do you?"

Tommy's face turned serious. "I couldn't tell yeh, lass. It sounds kinda…"

"Unlikely?" I suggested.

Tommy nodded. "Aye. Unlikely. But then again, so does winnin' two tickets to the grandest ship in the world and then bringin' along a stowaway."

I couldn't help but smile at that. "Well, you do have a point." I glanced back at the Gundersons, who were, unsurprisingly, arguing again. "Wanna play blackjack? I'll go easy on you."

Tommy rolled his eyes and shoved the drawings at a somewhat surprised Fabrizio, who promptly began to show them to the blonde girl. "Fine. But yeh'd better lose this time."

"Well, I can't make any promises," I said, smirking as I flounced over to the Gundersons.


	10. Descent of the Angel

A/N: I actually had time to edit this chapter over the weekend; it's amazing how much time you have after the SAT and a play and then your car battery dies.

I regret to inform you, dear readers, that this chapter contains a liberal amount of dancing, and the next chapter is comprised almost entirely of it. Sorry. But it is important, I promise. I've cut out what I can, so I hope it won't be _too_ bad.

I would very much like to thank **hippogriff-tamer, Gaslight, Megfly **and** armygurl07** for reviewing last chapter—your feedback means so much to me!

And now, onto the chapter!

* * *

As the afternoon wore on, I noted with growing unease that Jack was still gone. It even distracted me to the point where I was starting to lose at blackjack, and not of my own volition. This made the three men I was playing with extremely happy.

"I told you I'd go easy on you," I teased Tommy while trying to hide the fact that I was concerned for Jack. I knew he would be fine; we were on a _ship_, after all. There were only so many places he could have been. It's not like something bad could have happened to him. Not to mention that he was in the company of that first-class lady—surely nothing would happen to him. I hoped.

Luckily, my despair was ended by Tommy, who, at midafternoon, declared that he had had enough of playing cards and did I want to come with him to see what Jack and "the pretty fiery-haired lass from first-class" were up to. We brought Fabrizio with us, which I think Tommy started to regret before long; Fabrizio kept going on and on about Helga, the pretty blonde.

"But she doesn't speak English, does she?" Tommy finally snapped as we walked on the deck, keeping our eyes peeled for red hair.

"No, she's Norwegian," Fabrizio answered, obviously not getting it.

"Aw, shut it, Tommy. I think it's sweet," I said. And I did; it was adorable how two people who didn't understand each other were still attempting to get to know one another. They both went out of their way just to learn the other's names. Now, _tell_ me that isn't sweet.

"Women," Tommy muttered. I decided to let it go; he had run out of cigarettes, and the rest of them were in his cabin. It was odd, seeing him without a cigarette. In fact, he looked like a different person entirely. I rolled my eyes and shook my head. A moment later, Tommy's hand shot out and gripped my arm. A look to my right confirmed that he had done the same to Fabrizio.

"What?" I asked stupidly.

Tommy nodded his head up to the first-class decks. I looked in the direction his eyes were pointed and saw Jack and the red-headed girl strolling along and talking as if they were old friends. This was just…_odd_. Naturally, the three of us wanted a better look, so we inched closer to them until we were standing by the gate separating third and second-class.

"D'you think we can get in?" I asked.

Fabrizio frowned. "Well, if Jack a-can, we should a-be able to."

"But Jack is with that rich girl," Tommy noted. "The stewards probably aren't allowed to argue with people like her, so they let him go."

"Well, it's a-worth a try," Fabrizio said stubbornly, heading towards the gate. It was just our luck that a steward walked down the deck at that moment and spotted us near the gate.

"Shite," Tommy hissed, falling back and leaning against the railing near the gate as if he had been there this whole time. Fabrizio and I imitated him, praying the steward would ignore us. He didn't. Instead, he remained planted in that spot and eyed us suspiciously for a long, long time.

"Should we go?" I asked in a low voice so that he wouldn't hear me.

Tommy shook his head, smirking. "Nah—I want to have some fun. Lookit him. He's gettin' mad."

Sure enough, the steward was looking positively furious. We were so close to the gate that it looked as if we might try something, but we weren't actually past the gate, so he couldn't reprimand us. And you know, it _was_ amusing to watch his face go red and his fists clench and unclench as he watched us. Sometimes Tommy scooted down the railing an inch or two so that he was closer to the gate. This made the steward open his mouth as if to snap at him before he closed it, knowing he wasn't allowed to shout at him. This went on for almost half an hour (or what felt like it, at least) before he finally cracked and snarled at us, "Will you _kindly_ move away from the gate?!"

"But no one's usin' it," Tommy pointed out innocently.

"I, that is completely beside the point! Now please leave before I am forced to summon the Master at Arms!" the flustered steward snapped.

"But, sir, we aren't disturbing anyone," I said, taking up the innocent, wide-eyed act I had so often employed against vendors in Europe.

"You…oh, damn it all!" the steward growled, storming away irritably.

We had a good long laugh about it as we traipsed back to the public room. Tommy dealt Fabrizio and me cards and made me play poker. I suppose I could have always walked away instead of playing, but I had no real inclination to leave—there was little else to do on the ship. The atmosphere was light, as it always was, but the noticeable absence of one particular person soon wormed its way into my thoughts. Jack still had not returned from his leisurely promenade with the red-headed duchess. I twisted and turned in my seat every now and then, scanning the room in case I had missed him earlier, but to no avail; Jack was gone. The jealous part of me scathingly wondered what on earth that air-headed idiot could _possibly_ say to keep Jack so long. My constant fidgeting finally drew some attention.

"Angie, if yeh can't sit still, maybe yeh should go for a walk," Tommy said tonelessly, frowning at his hand.

"I'm fine," I snapped. "I just don't like this game."

"Because you a-lose," Fabrizio said cheekily, grinning so widely that I saw his teeth. "That is a-why we like a-to play it with a-you."

"_Ma vaffanculo_," I returned, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

"And you are a _pazzo puttana_," he said without missing a beat.

"I am not, you _figlio di puttana_!"

"Yer both nuts, is what yeh are," Tommy muttered, scowling at his hand. "Damn it."

* * *

By the time the bugles signaling the first-class dinner sounded, I had excused myself several times to see where Jack was. It was a very good thing that the lads knew better than to question a woman's reasons for temporarily seeking privacy; I was able to wander about and look for Jack for a good five minutes every now and then before returning to the card game, where Tommy and Fabrizio pretended as if they were _not_ imagining just _why_ I had to leave so often. We girls were cursed by Eve and the proverbial apple, but sometimes we can use it to our advantage.

Jack was not to be found on any of my hurried excursions. I fiddled with my silverware and toyed with my food all during dinner, my stomach being gnawed by an all-consuming envy of the fairy who had put a spell on my Jack. I could just barely muster up some faint happiness for Fabrizio when he sat beside Helga, the both of them talking in a sort of improvised language while her parents eyed them like a mother cow defensively watching the children in Barcelona playing with her calf. I had seen more than one child screaming, "_Diablo_!" as they ran from an angry cow; I hoped Fabrizio would not have to do the same. Although the image of Fabrizio screaming, "_Diablo!"_ and running from a cow with Olaf Dahl's face did make me a chuckle the slightest bit.

I would have been content to sit quietly throughout dinner and then retreat to the cabin when the party started up, but Emmy noticed my taciturnity and gently laid a warm hand on my own as my finger lightly ran over the silver tongs of my fork.

"Is everything all right, dear?" she asked me softly so that we wouldn't draw the attention of the others.

I forced a smile. "I'm fine…just…" I figured that I could tell Emmy the truth—or at least part of it. "I'm just a little worried about Jack. He hasn't come back yet."

"Ah," Emmy said, nodding in understanding. "Yes, Cora was asking about him. I heard he was spirited away by the most beautiful first-class princess; is it true?"

_This_ again. I nodded as I twirled some corn around on the plate. "Yes—she was a first-class girl, maybe around my age, with red hair and a yellow dress. She called him Mr. Dawson, so I _assume_ they know each other somehow."

Emmy looked thoughtful. "Hmm. Was it the girl he was talking about at breakfast this morning?"

I nodded again, feeling sick to my stomach. It _was_ her. I hadn't really given it much thought, but…it _was_ the girl in a green dress he had been ogling the day we met Tommy. "I think so. Maybe…maybe he _wasn't_ pulling our legs this morning."

Emmy looked thoughtful again. "It's unusual, but not entirely impossible. I suppose we'll just have to sit him down and have a nice long chat with him once he gets back."

"I couldn't agree more," I said truthfully. Emmy's perpetually cheery disposition had settled my unease until it had mostly ebbed away. I was able to laugh as Tommy and Jim entered into a battle of insults, but only after I made sure they knew that there were children present and certain insults were best saved for later. The blackberry cobbler for dessert was the best I had yet sampled, and this, too, improved my mood. I was still anxious for Jack's return, but I tried to at least enjoy myself as much as I could.

Before the slower diners could scrape their plates, the dishes and silverware were cleared away by stewards and some of the tables pushed to the side. Eugene Daly and his same band members collected themselves in a corner, starting to warm up their instruments. A few people (myself included, I'll admit) rushed to the water-closets so that we wouldn't have to miss anything tonight. When I sprinted back into the dining room, the makeshift band was striking up a tune, their synchronization slightly off from not having played all day. As the dance went on, however, they fell into the same rhythm as if they had been born to do it. Maybe they had been.

"You will dance with me, won't you, Angie?" Timmy asked hopefully once he had found me.

"Of course, Timmy!" I said, resting my left hand on his right shoulder and catching his left hand with my right. He laughed loudly as we took off, as did I—it never got old for either of us. His sweet little grin was enough to take my mind off of Jack, at least for the moment. Predictably, he tired after two dances and asked to sit down and watch the lads play cards again. And once again, predictably, the lads were playing poker, sitting in almost the exact same chairs they had sat in the previous few nights. Except for Fabrizio, that is; he was twirling a bright-eyed, flushing Helga around the room.

"What's the game, boys?" I asked, pulling up a chair and letting Timmy settle into my lap.

"Poker," Tommy said gruffly through his cigarette.

"Don't you lot ever play anything else?" I asked. So far, I had only ever seen them play poker and blackjack. There was no variety.

"Well, we're at a bit of a disadvantage, given the language barrier," Tommy said, gesturing to the two Swedes.

"That's true," I agreed, taking a swig of his beer.

Presently, Fabrizio came to the table, leading a beaming Helga by the hand.

"Everyone, this is Helga!" he announced, looking as proud as a small boy who has managed to catch a frog. "Helga, this is Angie, Timmy, Tommy, Bjorn and Olaus," he added, pointing to each of us in turn.

"Pull up a chair," I suggested before I turned to Tommy. "Get us some beers, would ya?"

He threw down his cards as Bjorn and Olaus hooted; obviously, he had lost. "Fine," he grumbled as he heaved himself out of his chair. "'S not like I have anything better ter do."

"Aren't you just a little bundle of sunshine?"

Tommy retorted by pinching my ear.

Bjorn asked Helga something which I had now taken to mean, "Do you speak any Swedish?" Or something to that effect.

Helga shook her head, seeming to understand at least part of what he was saying. "_Nei;_ Norwegian."

The Gundersons looked a little disappointed that their new acquaintance was yet another person who couldn't understand them, but they lit up at once as Tommy returned with the beers.

"Why do grown-ups always drink that stuff?" Timmy wanted to know.

"Because it tastes good," I said simply. "To adults," I added, not wanting to give him any ideas.

Tommy looked stunned. "_Because_, me boy, beer 'tis the sweet,_ sweet _nectar from the heavens above. 'Tis the finest thing man has ever made, _including_ this here ship. We Irishmen are suckled on it as wee babes and we die on it as old farts who piss 'emselves. _That_, Timmy McFarland, is why we drink it."

Helga and the Gundersons, who understood none of this monologue, merely blinked at Tommy's impassioned expression. Fabrizio, Timmy and I stared at him. Fabrizio's mouth was actually hanging open.

"I do believe that was the single most poetic thing I've ever heard you say, Tommy," I said after a moment, once I had regained my faculties.

"'Tis what the beer does ter me, 'tis," Tommy replied smugly, grinning as he swigged from his glass of dark beer.

"It also thickens your tongue and mixes up your mind until you're a blithering idiot, and then, if you drink too much of it, it gives you a hell—it gives you a nasty headache and makes you sick," I added, correcting myself so that Timmy would not be exposed to even more language than he was already forced to endure.

"I want to try some," Timmy said promptly.

I bit my lip. "I'm not sure that's such a great idea, Timmy."

"Why not?" he pouted.

"Well…because it's…it's sort of a grown-up drink, Timmy. It might make you sick. _I_ was sick the first time I drank beer," I said delicately.

"Yeh were?" Tommy snorted.

"_Sì_;she a-slept for almost the whole a-next day," Fabrizio nodded, momentarily breaking away from his attempt at conversation with Helga.

Tommy sniggered. I scowled at him.

"Angie, can't I have some? Just a _little _bit?" Timmy begged. "I won't tell Mommy, I promise!"

It took only five minutes before I caved in. Well, honestly; he had his lower lip jutting out and quivering, and his eyes were wide and hopeful, and he just…he was so _adorable_. And I melted like the sap that I am. The lads looked on excitedly, pounding the table as a sort of drum-roll as I held up the class for Timmy to take a small sip, praying Kathleen never found out about this. He had barely let the dark liquid touch his lips before I jerked it away.

"That's quite enough for you, mister. Well, how was it?" I asked, setting down the glass.

His screwed-up face was answer enough for me. The lads roared with laughter, banging their fists on the table and clapping each other on the back. Even Helga was laughing.

"That was _horrible_! How do you _drink_ that awful stuff?!" Timmy sputtered. "That's almost as bad as cod-liver oil!"

Tommy twitched involuntarily at the mention of the awful stuff.

"What did I miss?"

We turned to look at Jack and our mouths promptly fell open. He was almost unrecognizable: his blond hair was slicked back and he was in a damned _tuxedo_. He looked like a damned _swell_. His blue eyes danced as he watched our reactions. The moment was promptly ruined when Tommy burst into loud, raucous peals of laughter. "Yeh look like a bleedin' dandy!"

Tommy's laughter ceased instantaneously, however, when the red-headed princess appeared from behind Jack. She was…_incredible_, to say the very least. Her pink dress covered by a bejeweled, black sheer layer glimmered over her, giving her dress a reddish color and making her seem even more majestic, something I had thought to be impossible. Her hair was done up again, this time with an ornate decoration of sorts studded with gems. She was positively _dripping_ with jewels and would look like a queen if not for her hesitant demeanor. So the little duchess was nervous around us low-life scum. _Good_.

"Well, so did most of my, ah, dinner-mates. Fellas, this is Rose," Jack said calmly, pulling her gently forward by a gloved hand and displaying her to all of us. "Rose, this is Angie Marshall, Timmy McFarland, Tommy Ryan, Fabrizio de Rossi, uh, Helga, I think, and Bjorn and Olaus Gunderson."

We stared at her and she stared at us, although she, at least, could keep her mouth closed. The rest of us, I'm sure, looked rather ridiculous. I'm not quite sure what the others were thinking, but a thousand different things were running through my head. I registered shock. And then the jealousy came. Jack was _spellbound_ by the creature. Yes; _creature_. That was all she was. A witch who had ensnared an innocent mind for her own selfish purposes. She would break Jack's heart when this voyage was over; I knew that right then and there. But I couldn't warn Jack just yet; the enchantment was still fresh. I had to wait until it had dulled down a little.

Jack coughed, obviously sensing the awkwardness of the whole situation. "Well…"

"I can't find the bloomin' angels," Tommy said seriously.

I very attractively choked on my beer as I laughed, causing the two Gundersons to gallantly thump me on the back and for Timmy to leap off of my lap and ask me loudly if I was all right. What a wonderful first impression I must have made on Rose. Tommy winked at me once I had recovered, and I can't really blame him for being in such a good mood; if someone found one of my jokes so amusing that they choked on their beer, I would be rather happy as well.

"So…can we pull up some chairs?" Jack asked, clearing his throat. I hiccupped and then giggled. Apparently, I had had more beer than I thought.

"Uh, sure," Tommy said cautiously, reaching behind him and pulling over two chairs. Rose (what a sweet name for such a vile creature) sat down hesitantly, acting like a bird that had spotted a potential predator nearby and was unsure of whether or not it should flee just yet. Jack was completely at ease, of course, shrugging off his jacket (somehow, I doubted very much that it was _his _jacket) and running his fingers through his slicked-back hair until it was restored to its normal state.

"What in the bloody hell happened ter _you_?" Tommy asked Jack. Then he turned to Rose. "Oh, beggin' yer pardon, ma'am."

Damn him.

"Oh, no, I don't mind," Rose said in her charming, melodic voice.

"Nice, Tommy," Jack said sarcastically, grinning as he took a swig of Bjorn's beer. "Well, a saint from Heaven lent me her son's suit so that I could have dinner in first-class, _like I told you this morning_."

"Shit, you really did it," I gasped. I didn't turn to apologize to Rose as Tommy had; _I_ wasn't going to apologize to the woman who had taken Jack away from me for so long. And what the hell did she think she was doing down _here_, anyway? If she wanted to slum, she should have at _least_ dressed down a bit. Her jewels and exotic clothes made her stand out like a sore thumb. Or, as Tommy would later laugh, "The rose between the thorns." Bloody prick.

"Yes, Angie, I did," Jack said calmly, winking at Rose. She nervously returned the smile and started to pull off her gloves, one finger at a time. I started to look away when a very noticeable something glinted from her hand and flashed in my peripheral vision.

"Whoa; look at the _size_ of that rock!" I declared, whistling—for Rose had a ring the size of Texas and then some on her finger. So she was engaged. That relieved me a bit; at least she wouldn't be romantically inclined towards Jack, not if she had a fiancé. That still didn't mean I was going to like her, though.

"So, how were the swells?" Tommy asked. "'Scuse me, ma'am."

"It's fine, really," Rose said meekly. Her hesitance irked me. No; her very _presence_ irked me. I could see that Jack was infatuated with her, and jealousy consumed me. I was absolutely pea-green with envy. I knew at the time that I was being childish in my emotions, but they were just that: emotions. They were mine and mine alone; no one else knew how I felt, so I could feel whatever way I wanted to without being chastised for being cold and unfeeling. I know; it sounds stupid and childish. But at the moment, they were entirely serious to me.

"Uh, they weren't bad," Jack said carefully, his eyes continually flitting to Rose. "Some of 'em were real good folks."

I raised an eyebrow, debated over whether or not I should make a sarcastic comment, decided against it, and closed my mouth.

"Helga, you come a-dance with a-me now?" Fabrizio asked Helga, standing up and gesturing wildly until she understood and nodded, taking his hand and following him into the whirl of color and sound.

"I want to dance too," I declared, hopping to my feet and looking expectantly at Timmy; he never turned me down.

"I don't want to dance yet," Timmy complained, his eyes fixed firmly on an oblivious Rose. This was new. Obviously, he was just as entranced by her as the others.

Bjorn got up and said something in Swedish, but I didn't need to worry about the language barrier; he held out a hand to me and jerked his head at the dance floor. I grinned at him and tugged him out to the middle of the floor, hopping into the dance as soon as possible. He complied easily, laughing at my enthusiasm. I wondered if he knew that I wanted to get away from Rose—nobody else at the table was moving.

I wasn't going to worry about Princess Rose just now. Maybe she was like a bee or an animal begging for food; if I ignored her, she would go away in time. Oh, if only that were the case…


	11. Of Dancing Queens and Bratty Girls

A/N: So…is the crossover thing weirding anyone else out? I suppose it's convenient and all, but still, when I first saw it, it took me by enormous surprise.

I'm afraid there's more bratty teenager-ness here, but I do hope you'll enjoy it regardless. I think out of all the chapters, this is by far the bitchiest. Pardon my French. But let's face it: _someone_ down in steerage had to have not liked Rose. Or not have been enamored of her, at any rate. Plus the part where Rose throws her shoes to that woman before showing off? Yeah. I always thought that was way rude when I was a kid for some reason, and I really played off of that here. So, yeah.

There really is not much else to say about this chapter. So I'll take this time to thank the wonderful people who are kind enough to review this fic! These beautiful people are: **hippogriff-tamer, Gaslight, **and **Megfly**! Thank you guys! As for you mysterious, silent lurkers: Thanks, I guess.

* * *

Rose did not leave us, not until the party was over. I seethed whenever I so much as caught a glimpse of her red hair or decorated wrist, clapping in time to the music. She couldn't possibly understand the music, not the way _we_ did. I danced more than I ever had before that night, just to escape her. She was always as kind as could be whenever I was pulled back to the table; she would try to make small-talk while I swigged on a beer and I always gave her short answers, conniving one of the other fellas to dance with me. I was selfish and spiteful, but such is the way of young girls. We can be nasty things, we females.

Bjorn tired quickly that night, although I'm sure a great deal of it was attributed to _Rose_. Even Bjorn, my sensible, impossible-to-understand newfound friend was infatuated with her. I decided right then and there that I should be rewarded in Heaven for putting up with so many stupid men falling over themselves for one measly girl. I had found out through our "conversations" that she was seventeen—only a year older than me. She wasn't even a full woman yet. Jealousy burned at every inch of me, and it only died down when I was away from her.

Timmy provided a wonderful distraction—he was keen on dancing with me, since Rose apologetically informed him that she couldn't dance (no surprises there), so we dipped and whirled around the room until I could no longer support him. Even then, we settled over in a corner with Kathleen and Nora, neither of whom had any inclination to visit with Rose. When Timmy began to nod off, as did Nora, Kathleen apologized profusely and led them off to bed. Now I was left without a partner or even someone to talk to, something I could not abide. I had to brave all and go back to face _her_. No matter how hard I prayed, she was still there, still laughing and clapping in time to the music and sipping daintily from the beers Tommy so generously kept providing (he was strangely willing to get them tonight).

When I made my way to the table, fighting against the current of people, Rose was sitting there with Tommy, Bjorn and Olaus; Helga and Fabrizio had been dancing the whole night and were unlikely to stop any time soon. The first thing I noticed was that Rose was still there. The second thing I noticed was that Jack was missing. This was not good.

"Where's Jack?" I asked, trying to sound calm and laughing instead of frustrated and worried like I really was.

"Over there," Tommy bellowed, having to cup his hand around his mouth. He jerked his head at the table behind him, where Jack was talking animatedly to the Cartmells. A moment later, he led little Cora out to the dance floor and began to dance with her.

"Where've yeh been?" Tommy asked, loudly.

"With Timmy. He had to go to bed," I answered.

"What?"

"TIMMY!"

"Who's Timmy?" Rose interjected. I had to keep myself from glaring at her.

"The little boy I was with," I responded.

"What?" she asked, unable to hear.

"_The little boy I was with_!" I shouted, exasperated that I had to repeat myself so often tonight (the lads, being idiots, always got a table near the band). Well, that and the fact that I really just didn't like communicating with Rose at all.

"Oh!"

God, I hated her.

Olaus asked me something, which I had thought was in Swedish.

"What?" I asked, shouting.

"You dance, uh?" he asked, louder.

"Oh, yeah!" I said, nodding enthusiastically as the last song died down. I pulled on Olaus's hand, thrilled I had a dancing partner _and_ an escape from Her Highness. "Play us a fast one, Eugene!" I called to the leader of the band, laughing for no particular reason as he grinned and complied. Olaus wasn't Bjorn, but he was still a rather good dancer. I had grown used to the certain way he held my waist by now, the almost-but-not-quite stiff way in which he danced. I couldn't, of course, understand anything he gabbled about, but I'm pretty sure he enjoyed himself just as much as I did, if not more. For a time, I was able to forget about Rose.

When I glanced over at Jack, expecting to see him with Cora, I was shocked and somewhat hurt to see him pulling Rose off of her chair and into his arms. I clenched my jaw but, remembering that Olaus would most likely notice, I released it and forced a smile, laughing loudly when he twirled me. The others expected me to play a gay little girl full of laughs and jokes, and so I would play the part. Olaus didn't seem to notice, though; he, like many others, was watching Jack and Rose prance all over the room. It sickened me to watch them, so I pointed at the table where Helga and Fabrizio were showing off. It distracted Olaus—until Jack pulled Rose onto the table as well.

Everyone has, at some point in their life, encountered a girl who is young, loud, thinks the world revolves around her and will do practically anything to have as many eyes as possible focused on her. This was how I perceived Rose at that moment. Jack, after pushing his unruly hair back, began to tap out a little jig that I recognized from England. Some tipsy Irishmen that we had met in a pub one night were shocked we didn't know any jigs and so proceeded to teach us. Jack was displaying his talent for jigs now on the table for all to see. That part was fine; it was Rose's bit that bothered me. Of _course_ Jack had to pull her on the table so that _everyone_ could see her attempt to be one of us.

Rose laughed, took off her shoes and actually _tossed_ them at some woman nearby. I recall that my mouth fell open at her audacity; really, it was just rude of her to expect that we were all born and raised to be servants. The woman accepted them with good grace, setting them down on the bench. Rose then proceeded to hike up her skirts well past her shins (I was shocked that she would do something considered so scandalous by her kind) and imitate Jack's jig. I have to grudgingly admit that she _wasn't_ bad, but the fact that she seemed so…so _perfect_…it annoyed me. Perhaps it was jealousy, something I would never have admitted at the time. Rose was rich, gorgeous, she seemed to attract everyone to her—especially Jack. The more his heart swelled for her, the more mine wilted.

After a few more steps, they linked arms in imitation of Helga and Fabrizio, who were in their own little world, and everyone of course clapped and cheered like they were watching a baseball game. In a few moments, they had clasped hands and begun to spin in a circle, gradually growing faster. As they both made whoops of glee, a less generous part of me wished she would slip on her stockings and fall. That injury would be difficult to explain to the fiancé…

"Oh, well, I was down at a steerage party and I was dancing on a table with the poor boy we brought to dinner, and since I wasn't wearing any shoes, I slipped and fell!"

They hopped down from the table after awhile and continued to dance around the crowd, caught up in themselves. I was unwilling to get anywhere near them, so I returned to the table with Olaus. He said something to Bjorn, who protested for a moment before heaving himself out of his seat and going. I think Olaus tried to explain what had just transpired, but he was less adept at communicating than his cousin and so gave up after awhile. We set up a game of blackjack (Tommy was in a generous mood tonight) and for a time, I forgot about the Pest.

To men like Tommy Ryan, nothing is accidental. They are convinced that every man (they would never blame a female unless she was a sister) has an ulterior motive behind his every action and they love to find someone to blame. That was why when an energetic couple caused Bjorn to crash into the back of my chair and slosh beer all over me, Tommy lunged forward and grabbed Bjorn by the front of the shirt and said, "You stupid bastard!"

Believe me, I was fine. I mean, I would have preferred not to have any beer on me at all, but what was done was done, and as they say, there's no use crying over spilled milk. Spilled beer, rather. I don't think Tommy was actually defending my honor or whatever it is that "gentlemen" do—it was more that he was bored and looking for an excuse to get involved in something. When Bjorn spilled beer all over me, it was a rather reasonable excuse. Bjorn, probably not understanding why Tommy was suddenly scowling and bellowing at him, set down the beers and raised his fists to defend himself. I knew that they probably wouldn't really fight, and even if they did, they would punch each other a couple of times and then laugh it off over a beer. Men are like that. However, I wanted to be safe rather than sorry, so I leapt in between them, one hand on each of their chests. "Boys, boys! Did I ever tell you the one about the Swede and the Irishman going to the whorehouse?"

The scowls on their faces and their puffed up chests brought two words to mind: Piss and vinegar. That was all I could think of when looking at them at that moment. Then they suddenly broke into grins and Tommy held up his arm, his hand cupped slightly. I wasn't sure what he was doing (although I should have, considering I've very rarely been under the influence of feminine company), but Bjorn understood, and so the two of them sat down at the table, facing one another, and locked hands in an arm-wrestling match. It was not long before a small crowd had collected around them and we were all cheering them on; even Maggie left her place near her husband's band and watched the fun. As I had before, I cheered for whoever was winning; so far, the odds were leaning in Bjorn's direction, judging from Tommy's red, screwed-up face.

I hardly noticed when Jack and Rose approached, so concentrated was I on the match. I was aware that Jack snagged two of the beers, but other than that, I completely ignored them. Finally, Tommy's hand crashed to the table, covered by Bjorn's. Some drinks were spilled and glasses knocked onto their sides, but there was no real damage. Bjorn let out a sort of growling noise of victory, causing those who had been rooting for him to let out their own triumphant noises. Those who had been rooting for Tommy groaned, patting him on the back as if to say, "Better luck next time."

Tommy would have none of it, however.

"Two outta three, two outta three!" he insisted, holding up two fingers.

Bjorn smirked and grasped his hand again, preparing to win a second and third time.

"So," Rose interjected, setting down her beer. _Damn_ her. We were all getting along fine. We had been enjoying a pleasant arm-wrestling match. And then _she_ came to ruin it. "You think you're big tough men?" she asked, plucking Tommy's cigarette right out of his mouth and smoking it. My hatred for her increased tenfold. "Let's see you do this!" And with that, she reached down and grabbed a handful of skirt. "Hold it up for me, Jack. Hold it up!" she commanded imperiously.

Jack, being left with no other choice, held up the shimmering skirts, shrugging at the rest of us. What was she _doing_? Even the meretricious whores in the streets of Whitechapel were more discreet with their business—they, at least, only showed their poorly-stockinged legs in the privacy of a dark alleyway. Rose raised her arms slowly, as if in a trance. Her closed eyes only added to the effect. Suddenly, she was standing on the points of her toes. I was so shocked (as was everyone else) that I couldn't even form a spiteful thought. Her face bunched up in pain, and after a few seconds, she cried out and collapsed into the arms of a quick-moving Jack.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Maggie declared in wonderment as some of the lads laughed and clapped each other on the backs. Even when they did nothing, they felt the need to congratulate each other.

"Are you all right?" I heard Jack ask the drunkenly giggling Rose. I don't see why she wouldn't be; she was enjoying all the attention.

"I haven't done that in years!" she exclaimed, laughing some more.

"Go see Maggie, lads! Give her the holley! Let's go!" Eugene could be heard shouting to his fellow band members.

"Ho!" some of them shouted in return, obviously recognizing the tune.

A train of people began to form; first with a Scandinavian man I didn't know and a very blonde Swedish girl, then with Helga and Fabrizio, the latter of whom grabbed Rose's hand, who in turn grabbed Jack's hand. Not to be outdone, I snatched up Tommy and Bjorn's hands and yanked them to the line before they could even figure out what was going on. Everyone in the line was laughing and whooping; not even the scowling, arm-wrestling Tommy could hide the fun he was having. A space cleared out for us and we fell into a circle, clapping our hands and constantly moving with the music. Someone was always in the center, either alone or with a partner, showing off their dancing prowess.

Surprisingly, it was _Bjorn_ who pulled _me_ to the center. We spun and twirled to the point where we were _definitely_ showing off, but then again, so was everyone else. Although everyone clapped and cheered whenever anyone performed a step, I still glowed as we were applauded. Bjorn ended by tossing me up in the air amid my laughing squeals. When we fell back into our spot, he said something to Tommy, grinning. I don't know what it was between them, but they obviously knew when one was challenging the other, because Tommy grinned back and grabbed my wrist, making as if to run into the middle. I was out of breath but pleased; I loved being fought over, even if it technically wasn't _really_ fighting over me. We never got the chance—Jack and Rose ran out. Of course.

They weren't really doing much of anything; even now, at a considerably more mature and wiser age and with far less dislike of her than I felt then, I know that they were only cheered on because she was adorned like a Tudor and from a world that was equally foreign to us. It was all I could do not to grimace—I was sure that my disgust of her would damage my jaw if I wasn't careful. Finally, Jack stepped away with an overdone flourish, gesturing as if for her to make a curtsy. Tipsy as she was (and believe me, that girl was tipsy), Rose managed to sweep into a graceful ballet ployer, her feet turned out perfectly as if she was from a painting and not real life. Of course this caused everyone to burst into laughs and applause while she giddily skipped back to her place with Jack. Fabrizio and Helga jumped in next, whirling each other around; apparently, she was stronger than he was. This, of course, amused Tommy and I, who laughed when Fabrizio almost lost his footing with a wide-eyed expression.

After other men or pairs of sisters or couples had shown off (Tommy had whipped me around so fiercely that I laughingly swore my neck would kill me the next day), the circle closed in until it was gone completely and everyone was dancing in a chaotic mass again. We returned to the table, our feet sore from our exertions. Jack was forced to go locate Rose's shoes, which took a little bit and so left us Rose-less for a few moments. I was extremely happy about this.

I can't quite remember who it was, but someone started to belt out, "_Come, Josephine, in my flying machine_!" The rest of us liked this song so well that we all began to sing it. I should probably note that the combined voices of foreign tongues, strange accents, drunken slurs and some who could simply not sing (I was among that percentile) does not produce the most glamorous effect, but we still had a wonderful time shouting out the words, our faces red from the alcohol, the dancing and the singing. When the singing had died down to only a few tiddily men mumbling it, Rose asked if anyone knew the time. It took awhile to locate someone with a pocket-watch; our table consisted of those who were far too poor to own something. Finally, we found a man who pulled out a bronze, battered watch and declared that it was eleven-thirty.

"Is it really?" I asked, suddenly yawning. It felt like it should be much later—half-past eleven seemed far too early.

Rose's already porcelain face paled somewhat. She said something to Jack, and when he announced that he was going to walk Rose back to her room, I had to stop myself from beaming. _Finally_, the vixen was leaving our midst! I hoped that the next three nights would be sans Rose; one night with her was _quite_ enough for me. The lads all lamented the fact that she had to go, telling her that it had been "a damn good time, damn good." I was forced to also note that I was sorry she couldn't stay longer. It's a very good thing Jack couldn't tell I was lying right through my teeth; if he had, I'm sure he would have been upset with me for the rest of the voyage. They made their way to the stairwell and disappeared up it.

"Jack's one helluva lucky bastard," Tommy noted, lighting up a fresh cigarette.

I scoffed. "Please. I don't see why he's so infatuated with her; she's just a _girl_. And just because she's first-class doesn't make her Queen Victoria. Her head was full of _air_!"

"Aw, lay off her, Ang. Just because Jack's smitten with her doesn't mean yeh need ter get all riled up," Tommy said wearily, momentarily removing his cigarette to take a swig of beer.

My mouth fell open at that. Out of all the sour, pessimistic things I had expected to come out of his mouth, that was most _definitely_ not one of them. I remember stuttering like an idiot for a moment before finally forming coherent words. "What, but I…why do you say that?"

Tommy and Fabrizio exchanged glances, their lips curling up in a smile. Even Helga and the Gundersons were smiling as if they knew something.

"Well, lass, yeh _are_ kind of…taken…with him," Tommy said slowly, more to savor the words than because he didn't want to upset me.

"I…oh God," I groaned, putting my face in my hands.

"It's-a okay, Angie," Fabrizio consoled me, patting my back carefully.

"I must look like a complete _idiot_."

"No, you a-don't," Fabrizio assured me, his pats sympathetic.

"Jack hasn't noticed, if that's what yer so worked up about," Tommy said calmly, as if discussing the weather.

"He hasn't?" I asked hopefully, raising my head and causing Fabrizio to cease his commiserating patting.

"Nah; he's too caught up with that Rose lass," Tommy said in that same, monotonous tone.

My face must have fallen, because he promptly laughed. "Ah, yeh know better'n ter listen ter me, lassie. Nah, I know that's not why."

I chewed on my lip for a moment. "So…you're not going to…tell him or anything, are you?"

Tommy scoffed, looking annoyed. "O' course not! I'm a prick, but I'm not _that_ bad of one. Are we, Fabri?"

"We won't a-let him know, Angie," Fabrizio promised, giving me a smile before turning to Helga.

"Well…thanks," I muttered, gulping down some beer. I winced. "Ugh; it's stale."

Tommy reached over and tasted it. "Aye," he nodded. "Much like the beer all over yeh."

I looked down at my beer-drenched attire and laughed. "To tell you the truth, I completely forgot about that!" I admitted. "I was too preoccupied tonight to give it much thought!"

"Yeah," Tommy agreed. He paused for a moment. "Because you were too busy sulking."

I scoffed, turning red. "I was _not_ sulking!"

"Yeh _were_ sulking, and unattractively, at that, I might add."

"I was not!"

"Yeh were too, and yeh damn well know it."

"I wasn't!"

"Yeh were."

"Wasn't!"

"Were."

"Oh, hush up, the pair o' yeh," Maggie, who was passing by, laughed as we looked like ashen-faced children.

"Where are the Cartmells?" I yawned, glancing around the room. I was ready to go to bed.

"I dunno; I think they already left," Tommy shrugged.

"Really?" I asked, perplexed. Not that I was offended or anything; I perfectly understood that they wanted to go to bed, and they certainly didn't need to wait on me. But even so, it inexplicably surprised me.

"Aye. Why, yeh thinkin' o' goin' ter bed?" Tommy asked, a small smirk showing on his face.

"Maybe," I admitted. "Aw, come on; you can't tell me you're not tired too!"

"I am, a bit," Tommy conceded, nodding. "O' course, I can always sleep in; there's not much ter do on a ship."

"If you sleep in, you won't get anything good for breakfast," I reminded him.

"Ah, yeh have a point there," Tommy agreed, stretching.

The Dahls came to collect Helga presently, barely able to contain their contempt for Fabrizio. There was no real reason for us to stay around much longer, so the lot of us gradually dispersed to bed. I'm afraid that I opened the door of the cabin without thinking; thus, I was accosted by an image of Bert changing. I let out a little yelp and closed the door quickly, my face beet-red. After a few moments, the door was opened by Emmy, who was already in a nightgown.

"Angie, dear! I'm so sorry, darling; Cora fell asleep on Bert's shoulder and you looked like you were having such a good time that we didn't want to bother you—"

"Oh, no, it's fine," I assured her. "Really."

"Well, I'll send Bert outside for a tick," Emmy said warmly, chivvying her husband, who was clad in only his pajamas and a worn bathrobe, out of the cabin.

Cora, who must have woken up since falling asleep on Bert's shoulder, sat up in bed and wrinkled her nose, sniffing. "Why do you smell like _beer_? I mean, you _really_ smell like beer!"

I had grown accustomed to the way I smelled, and I realized I must have been stinking up the entire cabin. "I'm sorry; Bjorn accidentally spilled beer all over me."

"Well, let's get it washed out," Emmy said brightly, helping me undress. She rinsed out my things in the water basin while I put on a nightgown and then she wetted a brush, running it through my sticky hair. The beer was soon mostly washed out of my clothes and hair, so we climbed into bed and called to Bert through the door that he could come in. I don't even remember him opening the door; I was more tired than I had thought and I fell asleep before I could properly settle into the bunk.


	12. A Closed Door to Another World

A/N: I meant to mention this last time, but much of the last chapter was taken from the script; there were some parts that I thought would have been wonderful in the movie. But that's what happens on the cutting room floor, I guess. There's not as much from the script in this chapter, but one of my favorite deleted scenes is included in here!

This chapter is, sadly, also full of teenager angst. Because let's face it: the girl doesn't always get the guy. Heck, the girl almost _never_ gets the guy. The girl often has to watch the guy fall for some _other_ girl. Point being: lots of angst. Sorry for you fluff fans, but…well, if you're still expecting it after eleven chapters, I envy your intense optimism.

On a less personal note, the anniversary of all this is coming up very soon. Unfortunately, it's also during my spring break, which means I'm not sure how often I can update. I'll be updating on Friday (anniversary of _Titanic_ setting sail) and I'll try for the 14th and 15th (anniversary of the sinking, obviously) but Lord knows how well my internet connection will be by then.

Huge shout-out to **Megfly, Gaslight, Rookss** and **hippogriff-tamer** for reviewing last chapter! Thank you for sticking with me through all of this!

* * *

We slept in the next day. Bert and Emmy, though religious people who wanted to impress the love of the Holy Trinity upon their daughter, decided to respect the Sabbath Day by resting as the Lord had. There was a "Divine Service" in the first-class dining room for anyone who believed in God, including the lower classes, but we knew that it would be full of first-class passengers and that any steerage passengers would be glared at. So we caught up on some much-needed sleep instead. At breakfast, Bert and Emmy discussed the subject of worship with Kathleen and the Dalys and Bertha, all four of whom were deeply religious. They decided to have a small meeting in the public room later where they would concentrate on prayer.

I felt somewhat uncomfortable during this exchange, as I'm sure Jack, Fabrizio and Tommy did. I have no idea what Tommy's life in Ireland had been like, but he didn't exactly seem like the pious type to me. Jack, Fabrizio and I…well…we had never attended church religiously. I mean, regularly. On some Sundays we would slip into a chapel that would welcome our kind, but mostly to escape heat or the cold. Sometimes we went because Fabrizio, who had far more religious experience than we had, would have a feeling and insist he needed to hear the Word of God. He used to carry a small cross with him, more out of habit than anything, but he lost it somewhere in Spain.

The first time Jack and I were in England, back when we were much younger and were about to set off on our very first tramp steamer towards Italy, we went into the parish of Saint Botolph, the patron saint of travelers, because we wanted his blessing. As we began to travel more and more, we attended church less and less until we decided that our religious experiences could be limited down to prayers every now and then. I used to wonder and still do wonder if I attended church regularly in the life I can't remember. What if my father had been a reverend? That thought always unnerved me; the daughter of a reverend avoiding church.

In any case, because I felt obligated to please my hosts, I sat with them in their corner, where they were joined by a number of other passengers, most of whom were Irish and fervent worshippers of Christ. Jack, Fabrizio and Tommy also joined us, though I suspect it was because they had nothing better to do. We mostly sat in prayer for a long time, and it got to the point where I nodded off. Luckily, everyone else had their eyes closed and they didn't notice my breach in piety, but Fabrizio nudged me and thereby roused me when my head lolled onto his shoulder. When the prayer concluded, we all murmured, "Amen" and slowly dispersed. I followed Tommy and Fabrizio up to the deck, where Tommy promptly lit up a cigarette.

"Where's Jack?" I asked, feeling myself go red when they exchanged rather annoying, knowing glances.

"Actually, I dunno. He got up before the prayer was over. Just slipped away and slunk up the stairs," Tommy said carelessly.

I frowned. "He did? Why?"

They exchanged glances again, only this time, they didn't look smug; they looked as if I was a child whose puppy had died and they were unsure of how to best tell me without causing any tears.

"Er, well…"

"You see…"

"_Tell me_."

Tommy sighed and blew out a stream of smoke. "We think…that he probably went ter see, um, Rose."

I gripped the railing and turned to look out at the sea. It was so calm compared to my present inner-welfare; roiling and simmering. Funnily enough, however, I wasn't entirely surprised. He was impossibly infatuated with her; of course he would try to see her. I realized that he was probably trying to get into the Divine Service to see more of her. As if last night hadn't been enough. I didn't realize it at the time, but the way Jack was acting about Rose was precisely the way I was acting about him; I wanted to see him more than anything and I was hurt when I couldn't. I refused to find any fault in myself, however; young girls are convinced that they are never wrong, and I was certainly no exception to the rule.

"So, uh, the party last night was, ah…wild, no?" Fabrizio attempted.

"Huh? Oh, aye. I heard a gent say that they could hear us all the way in second-class," Tommy agreed.

"Why didn't they stop us?" I asked, turning from the glassy sea.

Tommy grinned. "Lass, a few stewards are _not_ about to take on all the steerage passengers aboard. That's like a Frenchman singing _La Marseilles _in a pub full o' Englishmen."

I frowned. "Then why do they keep us in restricted areas and give us a curfew? Aren't they scared we'll, you know, revolt or something?"

Tommy laughed out loud at this. "Yer too innocent to've lived on the streets! Angie, they do it because they're bloomin' _scared_ of us."

I crossed my arms over my chest, leaning against the railing. The coolness of it pressed through my clothing, making me shiver the slightest bit. "How d'you figure that? It sounds like a load of horseshit if you ask me."

Tommy raised his eyebrows like he always did whenever I swore; obviously, people assumed that my size and naïveté meant I didn't have a mouth on me. "Well…it's like this, see. Ever since the beginnin' o' time, there've been poor men and there've been rich men. Yeh follow me?"

"Yes," I said, a little annoyed; now he was just being condescending. I wasn't _that_ stupid.

"Well, poor men have always been led ter believe that rich men were better than them. It's been that way fer so long that people can't imagine a different way o' livin'. O' course, there've always been rebels; history's full o' slaves and peasants who fought their oppressors. They're scared that'll happen today, so they keep us penned in like farm animals and treat us like prisoners, jest like the pharaoh did ter the Hebrews. 'Course, they had _Moses_."

I was stunned by Tommy's speech, as I'm sure Fabrizio was as well. Tommy, well…he just didn't seem like the type who cared much for history. And although I understood his little monologue, there were still some missing pieces. "Okay…but how does that explain why they won't stop us from having parties? We're being loud and getting drunk…aren't those reasons enough for them to come…do something?"

Tommy gave me a smirk that I dearly wished to smack right off of his face. "Angie, let me put it this way: Who in their right mind would tell hundreds o' drunk, strong men who were already bein' treated like prisoners to pipe down?"

He had me there.

* * *

We didn't see Jack again until lunchtime. My morning had been rather uneventful; Fabrizio tried to teach Helga English in the public room while Tommy, Bjorn, Olaus and I played cards. Tommy and I taught the two Swedes Gin Rummy, a game they took to eagerly. The McFarland children were both suffering stomachaches; apparently, they had overindulged in dinner the night before. After Bjorn won Gin Rummy three times in a row, Tommy declared that it was beginner's luck and that it wasn't even a real card game. Luckily, lunch was announced at that time; otherwise, Tommy would probably have been in a sour mood for a long time after that. Jack came in ten minutes after we did, looking frustrated as he grabbed a roll.

"Where've you been?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Getting kicked outta first-class," Jack said unhappily. "They wouldn't let me in the service."

"But it's open to everyone," I said, confused. "Was it because you were late or something? Or maybe they didn't have enough room?"

Tommy shook his head before Jack could answer. "They kept him out fer a reason, lass."

I knew the reason: Rose. I knew it; she had had fun the night before, but she didn't want to see Jack anymore, so she asked the stewards to keep him out. It wasn't entirely impossible. I lowered my eyes, cutting up my pork.

"I am a-sorry, Jack," Fabrizio said truthfully, looking sadly at Jack.

Jack tapped his thumb against the edge of his plate for a minute. He glanced around and then leaned in. Fabrizio, Tommy and I imitated him, knowing he didn't want too many listeners. "You guys saw her last night, right?"

"Um, yes, Jack, we did," I said sarcastically. Jack and Tommy both threw me warning glares, causing me to feel somewhat sheepish.

"_Anyway_…I need to talk to her. Just for a few minutes, just to…to make sure of something," Jack explained, running a hand through his hair. "I…I need some help."

"What, romantic advice?" I asked, genuinely thinking that's what he meant. "In case you haven't noticed, Jack, we're not exactly the best people to ask about that kind of thing."

"I don't mean that, Angie!" Jack snapped. I shrunk back in my seat; Jack never snapped at me. _Never_. On the rare occasion he spoke harshly, he always apologized for it and made up in some way. This time, however, he just turned back to Tommy and Fabrizio, looking not the slightest bit apprehensive. "I need you to help me get into first-class."

"Jack, yer mad," Tommy said immediately.

"Aw, come on!" Jack said hotly. "I'd do the same for you!"

"Yeah, but none of us are stupid enough ter get into somethin' like this," Tommy said dryly. I felt a surge of admiration for him at that moment.

"Just, just help me out, okay?" Jack asked, frustrated. "I just…I just need to ask her something. Just one thing."

We were silent for a moment. Then, Fabrizio mumbled that he would help. Tommy growled and agreed he would, too. They all looked at me then, and I knew I had no choice. I was going to help Jack break my heart. It was horrible and poetic and painful all at the same time. When we were finished with lunch, we followed Jack out on deck and to the second-class deck. Even though Tommy had agreed to help, he kept trying to convince Jack that it was fruitless. I wanted to vocally agree with him, but I didn't want to make Jack more mad at me than he already was.

"She's a goddess among mortal men, there's no denying, but she's in another world, Jackie! Forget her! She's closed the door! Just forget her!" The whole time Tommy was saying this, we climbed up on a sort of platform on the second-class deck so that we were right below first-class. "He's not bein' logical, I tell yeh!" Tommy said hopelessly to Fabrizio and I as Jack jumped up and peered through the railing above.

"_Amore_ is in-illogical," Fabrizio said in a would-be wise voice as Tommy knelt down and laced his hands together to give Jack a boost.

"Help me, yeh good-fer-nothings!" Tommy snapped. I pushed up Jack's other foot until he was high up enough; then, he swung his legs over the railing and disappeared.

We jumped off of the platform and headed towards the gate just as the steward we had encountered (and annoyed) the other day appeared around the same corner we had last seen him. "Here, you!" he said angrily. "Get back where you belong!" Judging by the glower on his voice, he recognized us.

We were already hurrying down the steps.

"We go, we go!" Fabrizio said quickly as the steward closed the gate firmly behind us.

"He's a bloody idiot," Tommy muttered, pulling out a cigarette.

"Well, he's just doing his job," I said, shrugging.

Tommy rolled his eyes. "I was talkin' about _Jack_, lass, not the bleedin' steward. Although he is a git too."

"Oh," I said, coloring up. "Well, he'll forget about her before long. She's not going to take him seriously. And that's not just wishful thinking, either." I added the last part quickly.

"Aye, I agree with yeh there," Tommy said seriously. "He's got his head up in the clouds."

I glanced over at Fabrizio, who had been silent during this exchange. He looked uncomfortable, prompting me to ask him what was wrong.

"It's just…" he began, obviously unsure of how to word it, "it's just that maybe…Angie, maybe you are a-letting your jealousy…what is the word? Get the better of a-you."

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Fabrizio de Rossi obviously didn't know this, because otherwise, he would have kept his mouth shut.

"I am _not_!" I declared in a loud and rather childish voice. A few people nearby looked up and, seeing that a little girl (for I didn't look like an adult until well into my twenties) was growing upset with a foreigner, they merely shrugged and turned back to their lives.

"Please don't a-be upset with a-me, Angie," Fabrizio asked in a wheedling sort of tone.

"I'm not upset!" I lied. "I just…I'm not letting my jealousy get the better of me! I mean…I'm not…argh! I just don't _like_ Rose and I _know_ that she can't possibly _truly_ love Jack. Tommy, help me!" I practically begged, whipping around to plead with Tommy.

Tommy had been silent during our little altercation, dragging away on his cigarette and blowing out the smoke like the arrogant prick he could be at times. He took his time in backing me up; Fabrizio and I had known each other for a long time, far longer than Tommy had known us, and he was hesitant to get involved in something between the two of us. "Well…I do agree with yeh that Jack needs ter forget the lass. But…"

"Uh-oh," I muttered, knowing full-well that the "but" was going to be a blow to me.

"But…well…maybe…I think that maybe _you_ should forget about it as well," Tommy said the last part in a low rush, and if I hadn't been so caught up with my friends' "betrayal," I would have seen that he was actually making an effort to be kind, something no one should ever take for granted from Tommy Ryan.

I chewed at the inner corner of my mouth at the juncture where the lower lip arched and met the upper lip. They were both watching me now, both waiting to see what I would do next. I felt rather like an animal at a zoo. "All right then," I finally said. Still, their stares were burning into me. "What?" I snapped after a few moments, turning and resting my forearms on the railing so that I didn't have to look at them.

"Nothin'," Tommy said calmly, leaning his back against the railing and lighting up a new cigarette.

"Jack!"

I turned to look at Fabrizio, who had straightened up and was looking, surprised, at where Jack Dawson was slowly descending the steps into third-class, looking so, so lost and forlorn. Like a puppy dog who had been beaten by his master and wanted to be scratched behind the ears. Or…something like that.

"I take it that things didn't go so well?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Jack didn't glare at me this time, which relieved me; his rare scowls in my direction always hurt me. He did, however, give me the most pathetic look I've ever seen. There was only one real way to describe how he looked: Heartbroken. I had never exactly been _heartbroken_; I had just had my heart bruised a few times by Jack and then that time I had to leave Pablo. But looking at Jack's face at that moment, I thought that I understood perfectly how someone looks when they have their heart broken.

"Oi, Jack, what's with yeh?" Tommy asked brusquely. "Lass didn't reciprocate?"

"Shut up," Jack mumbled with absolutely no conviction whatsoever.

"I am a-sorry, Jack," Fabrizio said truthfully, putting a tentative hand on Jack's shoulder as he drew closer.

I felt less sorry, but I said I was anyway.

"Well, don't say we didn't warn yeh," Tommy said bracingly.

I winced as Jack rounded on Tommy; Tommy was just asking for it now. I knew that it wouldn't bother Tommy if Jack slugged him; he would probably just shrug it off. But I still hated seeing Jack this upset. It wasn't the Jack I fell in love with. Jack clenched his fists, his jaw set. "I _know_ you did," he snarled. "But you just…you don't understand!"

"What don't we understand?" I asked quickly, stepping forward. "Jack, she's not, she's not _one_ of us. She belongs to a different world. I mean, yeah, we had a grand ol' time last night, but let's face it; neither one of you are meant for the other. Just let her go."

Jack's hard, blazing eyes stared at me in a way that made me nervous. Jack didn't believe in hitting girls; he didn't even hit guys who were really asking for it unless they hit him first. But this irrational fear that he was going to physically hurt me came over, to the point where I actually stepped back so that I was beside Tommy. Tommy pushed himself off the railing, casually stepping forward. "Jack, I said it before and I'll say it again; _she closed the door_. Yeh'd save yerself a lotta pain if yeh just accepted that now and forgot about her."

"She didn't close the door; _they_ did," Jack said desperately.

I sighed and stood beside Tommy, feeling considerably safer knowing that if Jack was actually going to go after me, he would have to get through Tommy; not an easy task for anyone. "Jack, I know how you feel, okay? But you—" I began, only to be violently cut off.

"No! That's just it; you _don't_ know!" Jack shouted. People were now staring openly, finding this far more interesting than their previous activities. I backed up, only to have Jack advance after me, pointing a finger so that it was almost poking me in the chest. "You don't know a damn _thing_ about Rose and I and what we have! Just shut _up_, Angie, just shut up!"

Jack had by now backed me all the way into the railing. I remember gripping the cold metal behind me, my back pressed into it. I was so scared that he was going to push me right over the side; he looked angry enough to do it. I was shaking a little and I even gulped, wanting more than anything for Jack to back up. I had never once wished for him to go away from me, but I fervently wished for it now. I've jumped out of moving trains and I've almost starved and I've been in some sticky situations with some unpleasant gentlemen, but up to this point, nothing had scared me so bad as when Jack had me cornered against the _Titanic_'s railing, ready to kill me.

"Jack, stop," I said weakly, writhing in my discomfort.

"Jack." Tommy's voice was harsh and cutting. I even flinched, despite the fact that his stern voice was not directed at me.

Jack gave me a hard look as he stepped back. I wanted so badly to see some regret in his face, just to know that he hadn't meant to scare me, that I even convinced myself that there was some grief in his expression. Maybe there was; maybe there wasn't. All I know is that I took little comfort in his stony expression as he turned on his heel and left. And for a minute, I almost followed him. But Tommy quickly put a calloused hand on my shoulder. He shook his head as I swiveled my head to look at him. "Let him go, lass. This mood of his will pass and he'll be fine again soon."

"I just…" I swallowed. "Men are such babies."

Tommy grinned. "Aye, and proud we are of it. Now come on; I want ter get rid of Bjorn's beginner's luck." And with that, he let his hand hang on my shoulder as he and Fabrizio led the way to the public room. I saw the gesture of sympathy for what it was, and I didn't like it; if the hard-hearted _Tommy Ryan_ felt the need to be sympathetic, then I must have just been…disgusting.

"Am I really so pitiful?" I asked nervously.

"Not, not really," Tommy lied. "Just…uh, Fabri?"

"You are, ah, what is it you would say? _Addled_? Yes, that is it," Fabrizio assured me.

"Addled is not how I want to come across as, Fabrizio," I said with more than just a flicker of annoyance.

"All right, no need ter be so snappy," Tommy said, rolling his eyes. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

* * *

Unfortunately for Tommy, Bjorn was not undergoing beginner's luck. He was simply talented at Gin Rummy. This, naturally, frustrated Tommy to no end; Irishmen are stubborn and never admit defeat to Swedes lightly. It took my mind off of my less-than-pleasant Sunday for a time, but no one can avoid the inevitable. I would have to see Jack sooner or later, and frankly, I wanted it to be sooner so that I could get it over with. How does one react, exactly, to an old friend, someone who practically saved them, pushing them into a railing and nearly toppling them overboard without remorse? That sort of thing can't be taken lightly. What was I supposed to say?

"Well, Jack, shoved anymore young girls against railings, or has Rose gone back to you and now you're happy as a clam again?" Somehow, I didn't see that particular conversation working out.

"_Lass_," Tommy snapped, irritated, after some time. "If yer so damn upset, go _talk_ to the bloody bastard."

"How did you…" I trailed off, surprised he had picked it up so easily.

"Yeh've been tapping yer foot and it's gettin' on me last nerve. Now _go_," Tommy said shortly, glowering as Olaus congratulated Bjorn. Or so I assume.

I obliged and ducked out of the public room and up the stairs to the deck as Jim plunked out on the piano what sounded like the "Maple Leaf Rag." It was getting later in the afternoon and the sun was closer to its descent, creating a chilly breeze. I wrapped my jacket tighter around me and wandered about, looking for Jack. I finally found him at the bow of the ship, staring out at the sea. He looked considerably calmer now, and after taking a deep breath, I hesitantly walked forward. Luckily, he remained motionless as I rested my forearms against the railing. We were silent for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Jack said quietly.

"I hoped so," I admitted. "You've never…you know…acted like that before. Not to me, at any rate."

"No," Jack agreed. "I haven't. And I am sorry, Angie. I just…" He lightly beat his fist against the railing. "When it comes to Rose…I dunno…I guess I'm blind."

I've heard of people having strange conversations before, but this one takes the cake: Here I was, talking to the man whom I had been hopelessly in love with for years, talking _about_ being hopelessly in love, but his feelings were directed at another woman. There aren't many conversations to top that one, I'll bet.

"Jack…she's…I know how you feel about her, okay? I really do," I assured him. "And I hate to say it, but there's honestly not that much you can do right now. You don't wanna scare her off. It's best to just…let it be."

"I know," Jack sighed. Yes, _sighed_. Rather forlornly too, I might add. I was starting to put a face to the character of Romeo I had always heard about and never actually seen before. I was starting to picture Jack in hose and a doublet…not an altogether pleasant image, but one can't help one's thoughts.

I chewed the corner of my mouth. "Well, I'm…gonna go make sure Tommy hasn't killed Bjorn yet."

"What are they up to now?" Jack asked, a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

"Oh, you know, the usual," I sighed. "We taught Bjorn how to play Gin Rummy, and he's beating the hell out of us, which of course is making Tommy very upset. It's only a matter of time before they knock each other's brains out."

"Then you'd better go stop 'em." Jack was smiling as he said it. He was still heartbroken, that much was clear, but I could see him recovering, if only a little bit. I flashed him a smile of my own before turning and heading back to the public room, the breeze lifting up my hair and whipping me in the face. I kept my head ducked down to avoid the wind stinging my eyes. I nearly collided with a first-class woman, and when I looked up to apologize, I gasped.

"Rose?"

She smiled a little shyly. "Yes…Angie, isn't it?"

I nodded.

She fiddled with her dress for a moment. "Could you please tell me…where Jack is?"

I glanced over my shoulder, bit my lip, and then turned back to her. "He's at the bow."

Rose smiled again. "Thank you."

I nodded tightly and continued on my way.


	13. Kindred Spirits

A/N: This chapter's a tad bit shorter than some of the other chapters have been, but it's also coming sooner than it usually does, so I hope you don't mind ;)

There are a couple of important things I'd like to address before we start off. I've been receiving some reviews lately that I've been giving considerable thought to. As I understand it, there are some people out there who feel that this fic is "anti-Jack/Rose" and feel that this fic isn't giving enough focus to them. I'd like to address this, if I may. I in no way mean to spread anti-anything sentiments. But I _would_ like to point out that this fic is _not_ primarily about Jack and Rose. If that's your only reason for reading, I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed in later chapters.

Secondly, I'm having extremely mixed feelings about Tommy's fate. I honestly don't know if I should let him live or just let things go according to plan. I can easily go with either decision, but I'm honestly torn between the two; I want to save Tommy, but I don't want to be one of those Suethors who always has to let her dream-guy live. I'll be setting up a poll, and it would mean _so_ much to me if I could get your input!

Finally, as you probably know, today marks the 97th anniversary of when the _Titanic_ set sail from Southampton, its passengers never knowing that they were about to participate in one of the greatest disasters known to mankind. I'm honoring it the best way I know how—with this chapter.

I would like to give enormous thanks to **Star0012, hippogriff-tamer, Rookss., WenWen **(I think?)**, Gaslight, Ven,** and **Megfly** for reviewing last chapter! WOW! Fifty reviews so far! Thank you SO MUCH!

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair that evening. Well, quieter than normal, in any case. Jack never showed up—I suppose that he and Rose were having a nice long chat and were unlikely to part anytime soon. I vaguely wondered if Rose would be joining us again this evening. Timmy and Nora were also absent because they were still not feeling well; Kathleen reported that they were a bit peaked and that she would bring some dinner to them.

"Are they sick?" I asked; seasickness was not an unlikely possibility.

"I don't think so," Kathleen said slowly. "They don't feel warm, and they were well enough to sit up and play fer an hour or so earlier this afternoon. I think the excitement of the ship is catching up with them at last."

"I think it's catching up with all of us," said Bert, stifling a yawn. "I'll tell you one thing, I'm going to bed nice and early tonight!"

A ripple of assents ran down the table—many shared that sentiment. I was relieved to hear that I was not the only one who felt so fatigued; staying up late to drink and dance for the past few nights was catching up with me and starting to take its toll. I wouldn't feel guilty about retiring early, not if everyone else was doing it. I was ready to skip the party and go straight to bed until Eugene plunked himself in his corner and the other musicians joined in and they struck up a light ditty to warm up. I was lost then; the call of the music beckoned, and I had to answer.

I had been afraid that not many people would dance due to the lassitude that had hung over us at dinner, but the music worked its magic. Heads raised, worn faces smiled, feet tapped and the quiet rumbling of the dinner conversation turned into shouts and laughter. I knew that I couldn't skip the party for bed even if I really wanted to; the music ensnared me and I was powerless to escape it. It's not something you can explain easily, this magnetic pull, but the best way to describe it is like the effect the smell of delicious food has on your stomach: it makes you yearn for it and it's nearly impossible to get it out of your mind until you've been sated.

Even without Jack, I managed to have as good a time as I always had. I surrendered to the need to move my feet and I found myself begging the Gundersons and Tommy to dance. Helga, being the kind soul she was, even encouraged Fabrizio to dance with me a few times. Or at least, I assume she was encouraging him; I still hadn't managed to learn a lick of Norwegian. There were more trains tonight, more people joining hands and winding around the room like snakes until we ended up in a circle where we presented our dancing prowess.

Bjorn taught me how to do a Swedish _polska_ that night, a dance done in the escort position that mainly consists of "walking fancily," as many of the lads called it. I can't say whether or not I was good at it, because I couldn't understand Swedish and even if I had been awful at it, no one would have remarked upon it. That was one of the things I could never get over about the _Titanic_; there was this amazing spirit of camaraderie on the dance floor. You could run right into someone and bowl them over, and as long as you apologized, they waved it off. Sometimes they even seemed to love you for it.

After I had gotten the hang of it (or so I think; I _looked_ like the other couples who were dancing to the _polska_), Bjorn showed me a variation on it where the man puts his arm around the woman's shoulders and she holds his left hand with her left and his right with her right. I had seen many couples perform it before, most of them being Scandinavian, and I had always assumed that it was a very intimate dance for couples who had been courting awhile. I soon found out that the dance wasn't nearly as intimate as I had thought; having Bjorn's arm around me wasn't romantic in the slightest in this dance that wasn't really a dance.

Naturally, I had to get Olaus to try it with me as well, and I even managed to convince Tommy to do it (I wasn't about to let Helga see me with Fabrizio's arm around my shoulders; the dance may have been innocent, but it could certainly look intimate). Getting Tommy to dance with me was always a magnificent victory.

"Where do you think Jack is?" I asked Tommy after having pulled him onto the floor and securing his arm around my shoulders.

"Angie, just forget him," Tommy growled, rolling his eyes.

"But I _can't_," I protested, feeling foolish even as I did so. I was glad I wasn't facing him, because it made it easier to look away. "I just…you don't know what it's like, Tommy."

"What what's like? Mopin' after a lad who'll never see yeh the way yeh see him?"

I became fascinated with my shoe.

"I _do_ know what it's like, lass," Tommy said in a gentler tone. "When I was a lad I was head-over-heels for Maggie McCulloch. She had flaxen hair and blue eyes like gems and freckles that always put me in mind o' the stars…" he trailed off, a sappy grin coming over his face. This was _not_ Tommy Ryan.

"So?" I broke into his reminiscences. "What's this Maggie got to do with Jack?"

"Well," Tommy began, looking a little annoyed that I had interrupted his thoughts, "I was a bleedin' arse when it came ter her. If she told me ter jump offa cliff, I would've. The point is that I know how yeh feel, an' no matter what anyone says, it doesn't make yeh feel any better about it."

"Then why are you telling me this?" I asked, feeling a flicker of annoyance; _that_ had been a completely pointless speech.

"Because sometimes it helps knowin' that yer not the only one ter know what it feels like," Tommy said in perhaps the softest tone I had heard him use yet. I mean soft as in gentle, not as in sound; although the band had wounded down due to the amount of time they had been playing, they were still pounding out music loudly.

"Well…" I hesitated. "Well, I can't help being worried about Jack. What if Rose, you know, told him to bugger off and he threw himself off the ship or something?"

Tommy caught the levity I was attempting and grinned. "Nah, he'd do somethin' poetic."

"But that _is_ poetic," I argued, starting to get carried away with my imagination. "Think about it; he throws himself off of the ship that he broke his heart on. Or something like that. Plunging into the icy depths below. And of course Rose would have to be watching to complete the tragedy, because what good is it to kill yourself without someone watching helplessly?"

"I thought yeh said Jack was in a better mood after yeh talked ter him, and that Rose went ter go talk to him," Tommy pointed out.

I smiled. "Yes, love, but I also said he was _quiet_."

"So?"

"So, Tommy dearest, the quiet ones are _always_ the ones planning a fantastically poetic suicide," I explained seriously. Not that I would know from experience, or anything; I've yet to meet someone who killed themselves. Which is actually impossible when you word it that way, now that I think on it.

"So, sometime between when yeh left Jack on the bow and now, Jack planned his suicide, told his Rose about it when she came ter talk to him, and then jumped off the RMS _Titanic_," Tommy said as if he were giving it serious thought.

"We're horrible," I laughed. "Honestly, I think he's just sulking on deck."

"Yeh don't think he's with Rose?"

I shook my head. "She's engaged to be married, remember? You can't just abandon your fiancé on a ship for someone you just barely know. I'll bet you anything he's just moping and doesn't want us to see him. Shall we go bring him back?"

"We probably should," Tommy agreed. "The lad needs ter get good an' drunk and then forget her. That's what I would do, anyway."

"Is that how you got over Maggie?" I asked slyly.

"I was only a sprog when I was sweet on her!" Tommy exclaimed as we threaded our way through the crowd to get our coats.

"Yes, and you also told me that you drank whiskey straight from the cradle," I reminded him.

"Oh, ha, ha," he said sarcastically, pinching me on the arm. "Anyone seen Fabri?"

The Gundersons, understanding "Fabri," shook their heads.

"Oh, are yeh lookin' fer yer Italian lad?" Bertha asked us, looking up from her conversation with Maggie. "He's over there with that Norwegian lass." She pointed over to where Fabrizio was indeed deep in what must have been a strangled conversation with Helga.

"We'll let him be," Tommy chuckled, shrugging into his coat as I pulled on my own.

"Where are yeh goin'?" Bertha asked.

"Out fer a walk," Tommy said shortly but carefully; we both had mutually agreed not to let word of Jack's sullenness get around. He was already suffering enough. Even if he _was_, in my opinion, being something of a pansy over it. I grabbed hold of Tommy's hand so as not to lose him in the crowd, and he pulled me through the people milling about until we reached the stairwell. The cloud of smoke that hung over the dining room evaporated as we ascended the steps and I found that I was much more awake in the fresh air. It must have been too much for Tommy, however, because he promptly lit up a cigarette.

We took a rather rapid turn about the deck (it was so cold that hardly anyone was out, thus limiting our search), and as you've probably surmised by now, Jack was not to be found. An irrational part of me was afraid that Jack really _had_ jumped off the ship, but the more logical side reminded me that Jack was not the sort of person to do something like that, especially given the circumstances. Jack may have been an artist, but he wasn't as crazed as Van Gogh or something.

"Well, lass, I think it's safe ter say that Jack…what was it? 'Plunged into the icy depths below?'" Tommy teased as we descended, shivering, into the third-class area.

"You're awful," I gasped, hitting him lightly on the arm. I put the back of my hand over my mouth to stifle my huge yawn. Since the evening was winding down and I hadn't been dancing for a bit, my fatigue was finally catching up with me and I knew that I needed to sleep before I passed out at the table.

"Tired?"

I nodded. "Exhausted. I'm going to bed. You?"

"Aye," Tommy nodded as well. "I'll need ter sleep before I get ter the States." He paused for a moment. "What exactly is America like, Angie?"

I smiled. "Too much for me to talk about right now. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, I promise. Right now, I'm gonna find the Cartmells and go to bed."

"Are yeh _that_ tired? I didn't know me own strength," Tommy quipped, his eyes twinkling.

"Keep it up, Ryan, and I'll make you sorry for it!" I warned.

"Oh, what're yeh gonna do, whine at me?"

I made an indignant noise that only fueled him to laugh. After weaving around the various dancers and waving off people who wanted to know why I was in a coat or could I get them a beer while I was up and why wasn't I dancing and had I seen so-and-so, I finally found the Cartmells at their table. Cora was fast asleep on Bert's lap, her head against his shoulder, and he was blinking blearily at the dancers, a tired smile on his face. Emmy was talking to Maggie and Bertha, all three of whom looked as if a good night's sleep would do them some good.

"Oh, there you are, Angie," Bert noted as I drew closer. "And all wrapped up in your coat, too!"

"Tommy and I went up on deck to look for Jack," I explained, taking a swig of an unattended beer.

"Oh? Did you find him?" Bert asked, shifting Cora on his lap.

I shook my head. "No. But it's a ship; there are only so many places he could have disappeared to. Especially considering we lovely steerage folk don't have as many places to go to as the other classes."

"True, true," Bert acknowledged. "Well, are you ready to head off to bed? Or would you rather stay here? I'm trying to get to bed meself, once I can get Emmy away from Mrs. Daly and Miss Mulvihill."

"Oh, no, I'm more than ready," I assured him.

Bert reached over and tapped Emmy's shoulder. She finished up her sentence to Maggie and Bertha and then turned to her husband.

"Love, we're all ready to go to bed, and we're waiting on you," Bert said patiently.

"Oh, well, best be off, then," Emmy said, sounding slightly flustered. Bert gathered Cora into his arms and led the way to the cabin.

"What're you all trussed up for?" Emmy asked me, indicating my coat.

"Tommy and I went up on deck to see if we could find Jack," I explained a second time.

"And?" Emmy prompted.

"No such luck," I sighed. "But at least we know he can't have simply disappeared. He'll probably show up at breakfast tomorrow explaining how he found his way into the boiler room or the cargo hold or something."

Emmy laughed. "Your imagination, Angie! Only the officers and the crewmembers know how to get there."

"Oh, it's not so unlikely," I protested. "I've been on a fair share of tramp steamers, and Jack figured out how to get to the boiler room to warm up sometimes or hide something in the cargo hold."

"Yes, but those were _tramp_ steamers," Emmy reminded me. "This is the RMS _Titanic_, the Ship of Dreams! It's the largest ship in the world, and this time, Jack is _not_ in its employ. He'd have a time finding his way around!"

"You have a point," I conceded. And she did; it was trouble enough navigating ones way around the third-class areas—imagine the whole _ship_. Eugene had it from one of the second-class band members that the White Star Line had intentionally built the ship so that any areas reserved solely for crewmembers were as difficult to find as possible, save the bridge and the crow's nest, of course, which were necessities. It almost gave the ship the illusion of being unmanned, as if no mere mortal could control it. It was an intriguing thought, of course, but it was also a somewhat uneasy one if you think about it.

Bert, ever the gentleman, took his things and went to change in the latrine down the hall while we girls changed in the cabin. Bert didn't return until we had settled into our bunks; obviously, there had been a long wait. Sleep came easily that night. Later on that night, I would hate myself for not being awake; it would have given us more time to get ready and a better chance of getting to safety. Now, however, I'm glad I _did_ sleep so well for a couple of hours or so; I would need every second of that sleep later on.

Nothing was unusual about that night for us; we fell into our routine as usual. I imagined the day ahead of me, possibly the last full day at sea, for there had been rumors that we would make port on Tuesday night. And to tell the truth…I had _hoped_ we would. Oh, I loved the _Titanic_ and all; everyone did. It truly was the grandest ship in the world; I have yet to see its rival in any aspect and I pray the day never comes when they boast of a ship that is better than the _Titanic_—I fear I know how its end will come. But the fact of the matter was that I was somewhat eager to get to America, and by God, I have never forgiven myself for it. I realize that it's foolish, feeling guilty for such a thing when I had no idea the _Titanic_ would never bring us to America, but I can't help feeling as if I betrayed her somehow.

I know that what I'm saying probably makes no sense at all, but there really is no simple way to describe what I am trying to say. Many people hate the _Titanic_; I, among others, lament her. She was a work of beauty; no model or even a genuine photograph can ever compare to her splendor and magnificence. One felt awed merely by looking at her. In my mind, she was misused; she was used to serve the wealthy and no one seemed to spare a thought for her safety. She was more than just a ship. Call me foolish if you will, but that is how I felt and how I will always feel.


	14. Trapped

A/N: It feels like a long time since I last updated, but it's only been a few days. Huh. Anyway, I know I said I would update every Monday, but considering that I planned on updating the 14th and 15th, that would have just been overwhelming.

As a little reminder, the poll is still open, and I _would_ be appreciative of more opinions. So far, I have three voters. Come on, guys. It's very simple. Unless you have a huge aversion to polls, just as there are some people out there who have an enormous aversion to reviewing. Ooh, that sounds whiny, doesn't it? I'll shut up now.

I would like to thank those of you who reviewed last chapter: **SayreSaysStfu, Megfly, Rookss, hippogriff-tamer,** and **Gaslight**. Thank you so much!

* * *

_Eternal Father, strong to save,_

_Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,_

_Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep_

_Its own appointed limits keep;_

_Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,_

_For those in peril on the sea!_

You must know by now that the night I am speaking of was the night of April 14th, the last night of the _Titanic_. A few other survivors and I can rarely bring ourselves to speak of it. I warn you that this is not easy for me. I have had to set aside a whole morning that I know for certain will not be interrupted to write about it, but I doubt that this will give sufficient time. I apologize for my rambling; I haven't spoken of _Titanic_ with a stranger in _years_.

When I awoke, it was because a steward knocked the door wide open, flicked on the unmerciful light and shoved the lifebelts off of the top of the cabinet they were kept on. "Everybody up, lifebelts on!" he shouted in a no-nonsense, very English accent. And just as quickly as he had appeared, he disappeared, leaving the door ajar so that we heard stewards shouting the same instructions to other passengers up and down the corridor. I sat straight up in bed, blinking and groaning and hating the steward who had roused us. And then his words finally caught up with me: "Everybody up, lifebelts on." My immediate thought was, _What the hell?_

"What? What's he on about?" Bert asked sleepily, shielding his eyes from the light. Out in the hall, I heard Eugene ask, "What's all the ruckus?"

"Just put your lifebelts on!" a steward snapped.

I ran a hand through my hair and groaned. "What is he _talking_ about? Lifebelts…what?"

Eugene and Maggie Daly poked their heads in, causing me to pull the bedsheets up to my shoulders; comfortable as I was with the Dalys, who were currently in their nighttings, I wasn't about to forgo all modesty.

"What's goin' on?" Eugene asked us, hand still entwined with Maggie's.

"I haven't the foggiest; steward came in here and told us to get up and put our lifebelts on," Emmy explained.

The Dalys glanced at one another, worry clear in their expressions.

"Well, that's worth lookin' into, 'tis," Eugene declared.

"I'll go with you," Bert volunteered, rolling out of bed and pulling on his slippers and robe. "We'll come back as soon as we find out what in blue blazes is going on."

"I'll go wake up Bertha," Maggie offered, reaching up to kiss Eugene on the cheek before exiting. Eugene and Bert left a moment later, determined looks on their faces. The moment they were gone, I locked the door and pulled off my nightgown.

"Angie, what on earth are you doing?" Emmy asked me, tying her robe.

"They told us to get our lifebelts on; that's not a good sign," I explained, shimmying into my drawers. I was freezing with next-to-nothing on. I hurriedly pulled on my tattered chemise that had seen far better days.

"But Bert and Eugene said they would find out what was the matter—I think we should wait until they come back," Emmy protested, watching as I stepped into my skirt.

"Emmy, I've been on a fair number of ships, and putting on a lifebelt can only mean one thing," I warned her, fastening the buttons. I didn't want to outright say we were sinking for Cora's sake, but I had to impress the gravity of the situation on Emmy. I had never been on a sinking ship before, but I knew that sinking was the only thing on a ship that called for lifebelts.

"But how do you know it's not just a drill?" Emmy persisted even as I put my arms through the sleeves of my blouse.

"Emmy, it's…well, I'm not sure what time it is," I admitted, rapidly buttoning my blouse, discovering that I had buttoned it the wrong way, and buttoning it again, "but it's _far_ too late in the night for a drill!"

"Yes, but we're all in our cabins, aren't we?" Emmy kept at it, unwilling to accept the truth. "Isn't that the best time for a drill, when everyone's where they ought to be?"

I sighed, pulling my hair out of the collar of my blouse. "Emmy, listen to me: I know about drills. They _tell_ you about drills; the stewards go around to make sure everyone gets the message—at a normal hour, mind you—and then they demonstrate the proper use of a lifebelt and explain the lifeboats and answer questions for the rich folks. They don't barge into your cabin and tell you to put on your lifebelt before hurrying away."

Emmy bit her lip. "I…I don't know about that."

I bit back an annoyed growl as I fell onto Cora's bunk to pull on my stockings. This was the first time I had ever found myself impatient with Emmy—it was also the last. "Emmy…look, I know this is hard to accept, but…can't you hear the noise in the hall? We have to get a move on, and fast, because we don't know what all is happening."

"Angie, what's going on?" Cora asked from behind me as I secured the garters and grabbed my shoes.

"The ship is sinking, Cora," I said, lacing up my left shoe.

"But it _can't_ sink," she said as if explaining something to a petulant child.

"It's a ship—of course it can," I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice; she was young and she didn't understand. "Your daddy will tell you the same, I'm sure."

"Angie, love, are you _certain_?" Emmy asked with a great deal of trepidation.

I looked up at her then, pausing in the process of lacing up my right shoe. "Honestly? I can't say. But I have never heard of any _other_ occasion for lifebelts. Better to be safe than sorry, or so they say." I finished the shoe and got to my feet. "I'm going to the main stairwell; there _has_ to be someone there who knows what's going on."

"Well, put this on, then," Emmy said, holding out a lifebelt after I had wrapped myself up in my raggedy coat that still carried dirt from every city I had ever slept in.

I smiled thinly at her and accepted it. I fumbled with the ties and finally gave up. Emmy promised to meet me at the main stairwell later, and I left my cabin for the very last time.

The other passengers were already in the hall, cramped and crowded and calling to each other in foreign tongues while pulling lifebelts and coats over an odd assortment of clothes. A steward knocked me to the side as he went through the mass, stuffing lifebelts into people's faces and barking at them to put the cork devices on.

"Excuse you," I muttered, rubbing my sore arm and pushing my way through.

"Angie!"

I looked up to see Bert and Eugene making their way towards me, having a time trying to squeeze through the throng.

"Bert! Eugene!" I called back, pushing until I was right before them.

"I'm gonna go on and tell the girls," Eugene said, moving around Bert and wading his way through the people.

"Did someone come tell you already?" Bert asked, nodding at my apparel.

"Oh, no, I just had…a premonition, was all," I explained. "Bert, are we really sinking? I mean…what happened?"

Bert looked pained as he nodded. "Yes. We're going down. Your I-talian friend, Fabri, he said that they all felt a shudder and then there was water in the cabins."

I gasped. "So soon?" That could _not _be good. The more water, the sooner we would go down.

Bert nodded slowly. "Yes. And they're keeping steerage down below until the upper classes get out."

I swore under my breath, but Bert didn't look at all surprised.

"Where are Emmy and Cora?"

"They're still in the cabin, waiting for you."

"Move along, now, you're holding us up!" someone shouted at us.

"Sorry!" I called over my shoulder. I put a hand on Bert's arm. "I'll see you all later, all right?"

"Yes, we'll be there in a mo'," Bert agreed. We scooted past each other and continued our separate ways down the corridor. Some people protested when I pushed past them, but I paid them no heed; if they wanted out, they would have to push like me. Finally, I practically stumbled into the main stairwell. It seemed like everybody and his brother was gathered there and I groaned; this would take forever.

"Angie!"

I turned to see who was calling my name for the second time that night to see the McFarlands. They were dressed up all warmly and looking ready to board the lifeboats.

"Mommy says we're waiting for the first-class people to get into the boats, and then we can go, but we have to be all ready first," Timmy explained.

I glanced up and met Kathleen's eye; she knew just as well as I did that this was not supposed to happen. Surely they couldn't lock _all_ of us down here?! "Mommy's exactly right," I lied. "It won't be much longer, don't worry."

"That's right; you've been on _loads_ of ships before, haven't you, Angie?" Nora asked excitedly.

I smiled, trying to sound as if this was very normal and nothing for them to get upset over. "Yes, I have. They'll let us out soon enough, you'll see. Have you seen Fabrizio?"

"Yes, he's over there," Nora chirped, pointing. Sure enough, Fabrizio's black head was bobbing over the crowd, craning to look up at the gates where a great deal of men were shouting at a pug-faced steward.

"I'm just gonna go talk to him for a minute; I'll be right back," I promised. They nodded and I waded past a few people until I was beside Fabrizio.

"Angie!" he exclaimed, hugging me. I returned the gesture, glad to see part of the only family I had ever really had. He was standing with the Dahls, all three of whom were bedraggled and confused.

"How bad is it?" I asked as soon as we had pulled away.

Fabrizio hesitated.

"Don't you dare keep a thing from me," I warned him. "Bert said he talked to you; said you said that water flooded into your cabin."

Fabrizio nodded, his expression dark. "_Sì_, there was a lot of a-water. There was a…a shaking. I got out of the bunk and there was water on the floor. The Gundersons were a-saying something and when I a-opened the door, water was all down-a the hallway, up to our a-feet, and Tommy came a-running and told us to a-get out of there. So we got a-dressed and a-followed the rats down a-here. That is where I saw a-Bert."

I bit my lip. I glanced around at the surrounding crowd, seeing some half-familiar faces and some faces that were not familiar at all. "And…where is everyone else? Jack, Tommy, the Gundersons…"

"I have a-not seen Jack all night, but he's a-probably on deck with-a Rose. He's a-safe, Angie."

I nodded, hoping that wherever Jack was, he was safe. Even if it meant that he was with Rose. "Okay…and the others?"

"The Gundersons went down a-that way," Fabrizio explained, pointing down the corridor to the right. "Tommy is a-up there." I looked up at where the white-clad steward was snapping at the crowd and saw Tommy's curly head, back to us. I can't believe I didn't recognize him sooner; his distinctive Irish accent was bellowing loudly over the crowd. He was using some rather colorful language, I might add, and it almost made me feel better.

"That _bastardo_ will not a-let anyone go, not even the a-women and children," Fabrizio explained bitterly. "If he keeps us down here much a-longer, we will all a-die!"

When you say something to people who have not fully woken up, it usually takes a moment or two for them to comprehend it. Something similar happened to me. It was as if I had been in the process of waking up and I was only just now realizing that the _Titanic_ was _sinking_. I had had enough sense to get dressed and urge Emmy and Cora to get going, but it seemed that I only now understood that the ship was going down, that if we were kept down here much longer we might very well _die_. My fears were not completely unwarranted; I would later find out that many of the people who had been locked below _would_ die.

And, like a big baby, I started to tear up. I turned my head away from Fabrizio and the Dahls and swiped hurriedly at the tears forming in my eyes. I knew perfectly well that I couldn't hide it from Fabrizio, and sure enough, he put a brotherly arm around my shoulders, squeezing me and knocking me slightly into his ribs.

"Aw, don't a-cry, Angie," Fabrizio tried comforting, his voice low. "You'll be a-fine. You're a girl; you'll a-get out safe."

Poor, poor Fabri. He tried, at least—that much can be said for him. But let's face it; Fabrizio still had a thing or two to learn about properly comforting young ladies, especially when they're teenage girls who are nervous enough as it is. I choked on a sob I had been trying to repress and coughed, sniffling and swiping at my tears. "I just…oh, I don't know…" I said in frustration.

I know that Fabrizio was feeling awkward, as would any other man in his position, so I was unsurprised when he cast around for something else to talk about. "Angie…your lifebelt!"

"What about it?" I sniffled, feeling rather stupid at that point.

"It is not a-fastened," he said indignantly, stooping slightly to firmly secure the ties for me. We had had drills for this sort of thing plenty of times on various tramp steamers and Fabrizio had always been very adept at securing his lifebelt. I think his record time for the whole thing was around thirty seconds. I believed it; he was finished before I could finish saying, "Oh."

"Don't you have one?" I asked. I was sure there were enough lifeboats, but still, we had always been warned in the past to take as many precautions as necessary.

He shook his head. "No, but I don't a-mind; there are still a-women and a-children who need a-them more than I. Besides, I am a very good a-swimmer!"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, because I'm sure you'll be able to swim from here to New York."

"It is a-my _destino_ to go to America, Angie, and I will a-get there somehow, even if I a-have to swim!" Fabrizio insisted, looking relieved that I was no longer crying.

"It isn't time to go up to the boats yet!" the steward shouted. "Please stay _calm_!"

"How're we supposed ter stay _calm_ when yeh won't bleedin' let us out?!" Tommy roared.

"How long has he been up there?" I asked Fabrizio, watching Tommy rattle the gate.

"All a-night," Fabrizio sighed. "He only makes the man a-mad."

I chewed the corner of my mouth. "Hold on a minute," I finally instructed, pushing my way through the crowd on the stairs. I was met with more than a few protests, to which I innocently replied, "Well, he _said_ women to the front!"

"Angie," Tommy noted in surprise, nodding his head at me as I finally squeezed in beside him.

I nodded at him in return before turning to the steward. "Excuse me, sir?"

"I'm sorry, miss, but it isn't time to go up to the boats yet," the steward said promptly, not even looking at me.

"I _know_ that, thank you," I said between clenched teeth. "What I would _like_ to know is _why_? Standard naval procedure dictates that _all_ women and children are to be let into the boats first; there is never any mention whatsoever in regards to class distinction."

Unfortunately, my fancy words were lost on the fellow. He wrinkled up his already pug-like face. "_I_, madam, take my orders from Mr. Ismay, the _owner_ of the ship, who has had _far_ more naval experience than you could have _possibly_ had."

"I'll also wager I've had more naval experience than _you_ have," I retorted hotly; I didn't even bother to add that the owner of a ship probably knew far less than anyone who had ever acted as an honest sailor. Add that to my knowledge now, and I know for a fact that I could have handled the lifeboat situation better than J. Bruce Ismay did (I could never allow the owner of the bloody ship onto a lifeboat when whole families perished that night). "The ship is _sinking_—"

"It's not sinking, it's a drill," the steward corrected.

I stared at him for a moment and realized that he actually believed it was only a drill. I almost felt sorry for the poor guy. Almost. And then I remembered that he was locking all of us below decks where death was a certainty if we were kept here much longer. "Sir, the bow of the ship is _flooding_—"

"Don't try tellin' him, Angie," Tommy spat. "Bloody bastard won't listen."

"I'll have you for this, I will!" the steward said childishly. "I, I'll make sure you never sail with the White Star Line again!"

"I won't be sailin' _anywhere_ if yeh keep us down here much longer!" Tommy snapped. "And supposin' I _do_ live, I'd never sail on a line that hires arses like _you_!"

"Shut _up_!" the steward whined. It was obvious that Tommy had been pestering the fellow all evening and he was finally growing tired of it. "I will not shirk my duties!"

"Oh, aye, because leavin' yer passengers ter die isn't shirkin' yer bloody duties at _all_!" Tommy spat.

"When _can_ we go up?" I asked loudly, interrupting the steward just as he was preparing to reply.

His face puckered up again. "When the first and second class ladies have loaded the boats. Are you deaf as well as stupid?"

"She's a fine sight better'n you!" Tommy growled. "Let us out!"

"Not yet!"

I growled as well. "Bastard. I'm going back down," I added to Tommy.

"Aye, since we won't be let out anytime soon," Tommy said loudly, directing a meaningful scowl at the steward, who predictably puckered his face again.

I turned and squeezed my way back down the stairs, amid protests from the other passengers ("Make up your bloody mind!" "Watch it, girl!").

"Well?" Fabrizio asked as soon as I had rejoined him.

"No such luck," I said dully. "Damned _figlio di puttana_."

Fabrizio smiled slightly at the last part.

"Do they understand?" I asked him, nodding at the Dahls.

He shrugged helplessly. "I do not a-know. They do not a-speak English; what can I do?"

I shrugged as well. I looked down as I felt a tug on my lifebelt and saw Timmy.

"Are they going to let us up soon?" he asked.

I forced a smile for his benefit and straightened his cap. "Yes, very soon. Just be very patient and listen to your mommy."

"I will," he promised, nodding solemnly.

"Timmy!" Kathleen was calling. Timmy darted past a few people and stood by his mother's side, relating to her what I had just told him. Kathleen gave me a quick nod and I returned the gesture; the children must never know what we feared.

As I've said before, I've spent a fair amount of time on the sea. I've run through all the procedures for sinkings, hurricanes, storms, torpedo attacks, you name it. So I can safely say that I have never, _ever_ heard of a case in which someone in a position of power would purposely tell a steward—who is supposed to be well-informed of any situation whatsoever, I might add—that a sinking was merely a drill and that he was to actually bar any passengers from safety until further notice. _Titanic_ was and still remains to this day the only exception. I did not know it then, but I would later find out that Mr. Ismay did not believe at first that his prize could sink, thus explaining the misinformed steward.

Nevertheless, I found it astounding that anyone was allowed to take such orders from a man who was not part of the crew at all. There again, stewards know very little about nautical procedures; their lot in life is to serve the _passengers_. I suppose that Mr. Ismay, being a first-class officer himself, had considerable precedence over the stewards in order to make his fellow passengers more comfortable. Or something like that; I was never a stewardess under the employ of J. Bruce Ismay.

"Angie!"

I felt as if I was being hailed from all over the place. I turned and spotted the Cartmells, all bundled up, making their way towards me. I returned the call and waved them over. They washed up beside me in a moment, looking breathless after their trip over here.

"Heavens to Betsy, where did all these people come from?" Emmy exclaimed, putting a hand over her heart.

"I forgot there were this many third-class passengers on board," I admitted just as Tommy let out another snarl and shook the gates.

"What in the blue blazes is the lad doing?" Bert asked, furrowing his brow as he watched Tommy.

"That…_idiot…_won't let any of us out yet. Something about we have to wait for the first and second class passengers before we go up to the boats. He thinks this is a _drill_," I explained, not bothering to keep the exasperation out of my tone.

"Was he knocked around in the head, or is he serious?" Bert asked rhetorically, shaking his head.

"He won't budge; Tommy's been at him ever since the collision," I said. "And I don't think there are any other ways out; this is the main stairwell, and if this is blocked off, the others must be too."

"Or you could be quite wrong about that," Bert said thoughtfully after a moment.

"What?" I asked, frowning.

"Well, I only mean to say…as this is the _main_ stairwell, this is where everyone is sure to go first, yes?" Bert asked, rubbing his hands together.

"Well, yes, I guess," I replied, shrugging.

"Bert?" Emmy asked, seeing the determination in his eyes.

"I have a feeling that there might be other, _open_ ways," Bert explained. "The further away from the stairwell, the better chance we have, in my opinion."

"You might be right," I said slowly. "But…I dunno…something tells me to stay here."

"I have an idea," Emmy piped up. "Bert, Cora and I will go down the corridors and look for a way out. If we find one, we'll scamper back here and tell you, all right, Angie dear?"

"Oh, are you sure?" I asked, twisting the fabric of my coat. "It's just, if you have a way out, I don't wanna impede you or anything; you need to get out…"

"Angie, we won't leave you here to…well, to meet your fate," Emmy said firmly.

"Yes, but he might let us out soon," I said, gesturing lamely at the steward. It was bullshit and I knew it, but I would have _hated_ to have been the cause of them not getting to a lifeboat.

"He might and he might not," Emmy conceded. "We'll come back for you regardless, all right?"

I bit my lip and then nodded. "All right. Thank you," I added.

"Why aren't you coming with us, Angie?" Cora asked, eyes wide.

I ducked down until I was at her height. "Because, Cora, I…Fabrizio's here, and he's like my brother. I can't leave him. They won't keep us down here forever; I'll get out. Don't you worry. You just be a good little girl and hold Mummy and Daddy's hands and listen to them, all right?"

She nodded. "Okay."

I smiled and hugged her; she was warm and soft and felt like a doll in my arms. She returned the gesture enthusiastically and even kissed me on the cheek. I've never forgotten it, ever; it was one of the last acts of compassion I was to face that night. I kissed her cheek in return, rose back up, clasped hands with Bert and Emmy and then we wished each other the best of luck before going our separate ways.

It was to be the last time I would ever see them.


	15. A Building Panic

A/N: I mean to have this up much sooner today, but my internet wasn't working, so I had to wait. Which I guess gave you a chance to catch up, if you haven't already.

Today, as you very well know, marks the 97th anniversary of _Titanic_'s end. This morning at 2:20 am, 97 years ago to this day, roughly 1500 people perished in the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean while only 700 survived. It was one of the greatest disasters in human history and will never, _ever_ be forgotten. I want to commemorate those poor souls, victims and survivors alike, for all but one of them are dead now. Rest in Peace.

* * *

_O Christ! Whose voice the waters heard_

_And hushed their raging at Thy word,_

_Who walkedst on the foaming deep,_

_And calm amidst its rage didst sleep;_

_Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,_

_For those in peril on the sea!_

We weren't there for an overly long amount of time—less than two hours—but it felt like much, _much_ longer. It was by far one of the most chaotic places I have ever been in; foreign tongues intermingled and shouted at one another; children cried for their parents while parents, in return, cried out for their children; people shouted out for loved ones, trying desperately to locate them in the throng; some people laughed and joked, sure that they were safe; others wailed in despair and could not be pacified. And over all of this I heard Tommy and the steward bickering loudly and relentlessly. I got a headache from that stairwell, crammed in there with hundreds of other people. There were over twenty-two hundred souls on board, and roughly a third—if not more—of those souls were in the stairwell at some point or another.

Many people migrated to other corridors in hopes of finding an unbarred way up to the decks. Many people escaped; some, I have heard, were even aided by stewards. I wonder why they did not let us go. Kate Murphy told me afterwards that at another gate, Jim Farrell had argued with the steward until he grudgingly allowed the girls to go. I wish our steward had been as kind; many people went down because of him. I wonder if he ever got out, if he ever realized that the ship was sinking somewhere between the time I left him and the time the ship foundered. I am certain he didn't get away; the lifeboats were almost all gone by the time I got up on deck. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Not long after the Cartmells left, the Gundersons appeared in the stairwell, dressed warmly and calling out in Swedish, no doubt asking the other Swedes what was going on. Not many Swedes spoke English, but they must have gotten the message, for they were wearing their lifebelts. I called to them and waved them over, as did Fabrizio. They had no trouble moving through the crowd; they were so strong and broad that people yielded easily to their pushes. They were at my side in a moment, gabbling in Swedish that they knew neither Fabrizio nor I could understand.

I didn't understand what they were saying at first, but as they persisted, I gradually got the gist of it. They gesticulated wildly at themselves and then down the corridor opposite the one that the Cartmells had gone down. I shook my head and told them I didn't understand, causing their gesticulations to grow wilder. They began gesturing to Fabrizio and me as well, but still, I remained incomprehensive. My mind was sluggish due to the headache and the general confusion. It still hadn't dawned on me that they wanted me to come with them when they tugged on my arm, pointing to the corridor.

"They want you to go with them," the Scandinavian girl with white-blonde hair finally told me, turning around.

"You speak English?" I asked, momentarily floored.

She nodded. "_Ja_, and Swedish and Norwegian."

"Oh." I paused. "Well…where do they want me to go?"

She related the question to them. More gesticulations followed before she turned back to me. "They say they go to look for a way out. They want you and your friend to go look for one."

I chewed my lip and glanced at Fabrizio. He licked his lips. "Maybe we shoulda go with a-them."

"But…Tommy…" I sputtered.

Fabrizio thought for a moment. "Okay, how about you a-stay here with-a Tommy. I will a-go with the Gundersons and if we find a way out of a-here, we will come get a-you and Tommy."

This sounded rational—we didn't have to worry about losing one another or ending up where the flooding was going on. So I nodded. The girl related our idea to the Gundersons, who conversed for a moment before nodding. I hugged Fabrizio tightly; I didn't know if I would ever see him again. Then he disappeared down the corridor with the Gundersons. Before long, the blonde girl disappeared as well. I think she went down the same corridor as the Cartmells, which would explain why I never saw her again.

About this time, the floor was beginning to tilt. Not badly, but just barely noticeable. I returned to the McFarlands, acting as if nothing were wrong. Whenever I met Kathleen's eye, we gave each other looks that said the same thing: _If we stay down here much longer, we'll die_. Part of me wished I had gone with the Cartmells. Part of me wished I had gone with Fabrizio and the Gundersons. And another part of me told me to stay right where I was. But I couldn't let the children know this. So I smiled and joked with them, trying my absolute best to make them think everything was all right, that they weren't in any danger.

It could have been half an hour or it could have been ten minutes; all I know is that after awhile, Timmy asked if I would hold him. I had forgotten about the lateness of the hour and the fact that he had gotten very little sleep and had suffered a stomachache earlier that day; he was worn out. He laid his little head on my shoulder as soon as I had picked him up and made only feeble, monosyllabic answers when I asked him a question. Nora soon began to lean against her mother, her eyes fluttering closed every now and then. What a time to be tired! But I rubbed Timmy's back regardless; I had a feeling that he would not find much comfort later this evening.

What happened next has been a source of pain for me for many, many years, even to this day. Timmy's soft little snores began to blow at my neck, and this did not evade Kathleen's notice. And so she told me, "Y'know, the children are so tired…I'm right tempted to put them back in bed."

"I know; they won't get much sleep later on," I said in a low tone so as not to awake Timmy or arouse Nora's suspicions.

Kathleen sighed and shifted her weight. After a few moments' pause, she said, "Y'know, Angie…I think I will take the kids back to the cabin. We won't be let out fer awhile, and there's no use in them standing around, wearing themselves out before there's even anything to wear themselves out over."

I should have stopped her and told her that no, she needed to stay out here. I should have screamed at the steward to let them out. I should have taken them down a corridor and found a way out with them. I should have done anything but what I did next, which was to say, "Well…all right. I'll come get you as soon as they start letting us up."

"Thank yeh kindly, darlin'," she said gratefully. She shook Timmy a little until he blearily opened his eyes. "Tim, we're goin' back to the cabin fer a wee bit."

"Why?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head.

"We won't leave fer awhile now, and you need to be well-rested before we go," Kathleen told him.

"I don't wanna…" Timmy complained.

"Tim, come on," Kathleen said firmly. "Angie will come get us as soon as everything's ready."

"I sure will," I promised. A broken promise.

Timmy finally nodded his consent. I squeezed him to me and kissed his soft, round little cheek before letting him slide to the ground. Kathleen took her children's hands and marched to her cabin, somehow parting the sea of people just as Moses parted the Red Sea.

For some time afterwards, I had always thought that Kathleen and her children died because I had not come back to warn them. I thought that they had died trying to escape the icy water and finding themselves trapped in the ship. After I had my first child and learned a thing or two about mothering, I realized differently. I realized that Kathleen knew that there was a very slim, almost impossible chance of surviving the sinking. A mother's intuition informed me that Kathleen had taken her children to rest so that they would not know when they died. It is certainly what I would do for my children now.

You may think it horrible that a mother would purposely put her children to sleep to die rather than try to find a way out. You are not a mother if you think so. I once heard of a slave woman a few years before the Civil War who killed her children rather than subject them to slavery. A mother cannot bear to see her children suffer; Kathleen McFarland was no exception to this rule. I do not think I am wrong; I can think of no other reason why she would have taken away her children other than to spare them the agony of dying and _knowing_ that they're dying. There were many other women that night, I'm sure, who made sacrifices only a mother can make; Kathleen is only one out of many.

With Jack nowhere to be found, Tommy arguing with the steward, Fabrizio and the Gundersons gone one way, the Cartmells gone another, and the McFarlands in their cabin, I was alone. I went to stand with Helga and her parents, but I still felt lonely; we couldn't understand each other, so we could only stand and wait. I liked Helga, really—I could almost say I loved her like a sister, considering her closeness to Fabrizio—but I sure would have liked her a lot more if I could have understood her. With nothing better to do, I let go of thought (my thoughts kept drifting to drowning and other unpleasant means of dying) and instead listened to Tommy's argument with the steward—he wasn't giving up.

"Yeh can't keep us locked up in here like animals; the ship's bloody sinkin'!"

_Animals_. Yes, we were rather treated like animals, weren't we? People ignored us or ogled us but never treated us like one of them. We were unwanted but a necessity for the other classes to function. And if we were to die, who would notice? Who would care? There were other poor people like us all over the world; what difference did it make if a few hundred of us were removed from the earth? Some people felt a great deal kinder towards the steerage passengers who died than they ever would have if they had lived. Others said, "Oh, that's too bad." And then they sat down to dinner and forgot about it.

I later found out that more compassion was shown for the dogs on board than for us; someone actually freed the dogs from the kennel while far, far too many people were still locked below. When I was told this, I felt sick. It is one of the truest and most horrible facts of the social system at this time, that the wealthy elite was more concerned over their mutts than they were for hundreds of people who had done nothing to be treated like dirt but simply _living_.

After a few moments, the steward called out, "Bring forward the women!"

I was too far down below to see what was happening, but I know I saw the gates open. Tommy turned around and, after a moment of searching, found me. "Angie, c'mere!" he shouted, motioning for me to come up.

Relief flooded through me; finally, a way out! I would get up the boat decks and get out! And maybe, somehow, Tommy and Fabrizio would be able to get off too. I turned to Helga and pulled on her hand; the Dahls, seeing the open gates, began to walk up the stairs. Our chance never came, however; I heard shouts of, "Women only! No men!" There was a commotion at the top, and from what I can gather, it seems that some men tried to get through the gate as well and the steward and his assistants pushed them back. A fight ensued, ending with the gate being locked once more. My heart came crashing into my stomach.

"For God's sake man, there are women and children down here! Let us up so we can have a chance!" Tommy roared.

"Jack!"

I looked around; it was Helga. My heart, which had just returned to its rightful place in my chest, froze. Jack was wet, had broken handcuffs on his wrists and was pulling along an equally wet Rose. She was shivering in her short-sleeved dress, despite the blanket around her shoulders. I haven't the foggiest idea what on _earth_ the two of them went through; I can only imagine. They had been in the water, obviously, but I can think of nothing to explain the severed handcuffs.

"Jack!" I echoed, flinging my arms around him. I promise you that it wasn't because I was still childishly clinging to the hope that he would someday love me or because I was trying to make Rose jealous; at this point, I was ecstatic to see anyone I knew.

Jack returned the gesture, albeit hurriedly, before pulling away. "Hey, where's Fabrizio?"

"Uh…he went down that way with the Gundersons," I replied, pointing down the corridor they had disappeared down. "Jack, what the hell happened to you?"

"It's a long story," Jack said shortly.

"Obviously," I muttered under my breath. Standing behind Rose were the Dalys and Bertha. I nodded at them and turned to where Tommy was still having it out with the steward, although more viciously now than before. "Tommy!" I shouted up to him.

Tommy turned and looked around; upon seeing us, he turned back to the steward (probably to give him one last withering glare) and then made his way down to us. "Jack!" he hailed, finally reaching us.

"Tommy, can we get out?" Jack asked. Where had he _been_?!

"It's hopeless that way!" Tommy exclaimed, impatience lacing his tone.

"All right," Jack said; I could practically hear his mind working. "Well, whatever we do, we gotta do it fast."

"Jack!"

We all turned around upon hearing Fabrizio's voice. He was making his way through the crowd, looking eagerly at Jack.

"Fabrizio!"

They embraced like brothers, patting each other on the backs. I felt better, seeing them embrace like that; it was as if some sense of normalcy had been restored. Not much, but enough to get me thinking clearly again. That's probably why I remembered the Gundersons.

"Fabri, where are the Gundersons? I thought you three were looking for a way out together," I said, standing on the tips of my toes and craning my neck as if I might be able to find them. It was impossible to find _anyone_ in that crowd; it was as jumbled and confusing as a Picasso portrait.

"I do not a-know! One minute they are beside a-me, the next, they are not!"

"D'you think they found a way out?" I asked, fiddling with a tie on my lifebelt.

"_Sì_, I think so," Fabrizio confirmed, stopping my hand before I untied the work he had done. He turned back to Jack. "The boats are all gone!"

"This whole place is flooding; we gotta get outta here," Jack said, thinking aloud.

"There is _niente_ this way!" Fabrizio exclaimed in frustration, gesturing angrily to the corridor he had just come from.

"All right," Jack placated once more, glancing around him. "Let's go this way, all right? C'mon…"

We made to follow Jack, who was already leading the way to the corridor to the left—the same one that the Cartmells had gone down.

"No, Jack, _aspetta, aspetta,_" Fabrizio said, stopping us.

We turned around to see him trying to talk to the Dahls. I wanted them to live, I really did, but I was also impatient and wanted to get moving. We waited, trying to be as patient as possible on a sinking ship while our love-sick friend tried to talk to a girl who could not understand him.

"Everyone, eh, you come with me, we go, to the boats, uh?" he tried, gesticulating wildly for the Dahls to come with us to the boat deck.

Helga turned to her father, asking him something in her harsh Norwegian tongue. They spoke for a moment, gabbling rapidly.

"You come, in the boat, in the boat," Fabrizio kept saying.

We all nodded, hurriedly gesturing for them to come with us.

"_Capito, capito_," Fabrizio tried, hoping there was a Norwegian word that sounded just like it.

But Olaf Dahl would have none of it; he shook his head, saying, _"Nei_," which I know meant "no." Helga and her father talked some more, he looking untrusting and she looking hopeful.

"Helga, _per favore_, uh? You come with me now! I'm a-lucky; it is my destiny to go to America, please!" Fabrizio begged her.

Rose made an exasperated motion with her head, and I felt some of the old annoyance flicker in me again.

"We'll never get out," she mumbled.

"Give him some slack; she can't speak English. He's trying," I said harshly, turning back to the heart-wrenching scene before me.

Helga asked her father something, to which he again replied, _"Nei."_

Helga turned to Fabrizio then and kissed him. Just watching them made things seem less grim. It was one of the sweetest kisses I have ever witnessed and I was sure that it was a promise. But it wasn't.

"Come!" Fabrizio cried once they had pulled away, taking her hand and starting to go.

"C'mon," Jack echoed, leading the way again.

But we were stopped again; Helga would not come. She shook her head, saying something in Norwegian and looking tearful. Her father forbade her to go and so she would not go. I have never lived the kind of life where one's parents take precedence over one's love, so I cannot say I completely sympathize with Helga, but I do understand duty. And what I saw that night was a confused girl who had to part with her love because of duty. It's an awful thing, to be obligated.

Jack put a hand on Fabrizio's shoulder as Helga stepped back with her family, the pain on her face making its way into me. I'm sure the others felt the same way, but we _had_ to keep moving. Jack and Rose were wet and blue-lipped; if the water was that deep already, the ship was going fast and we needed to get to the lifeboats as quickly as possible.

"Come on," Jack urged, pulling on Fabrizio.

"I will never forget you!" Fabrizio promised Helga before he turned and followed us.

We mostly followed Jack down the corridor; he, at least, seemed to know what he was doing. We must have made quite a sight; Jack, soaked, wearing broken handcuffs; Rose, also wet, in her first-class finery and a simple blanket; me, dressed for the winter and wearing a bulky white lifebelt; an unshaven Tommy, who was also in his warm clothes and a lifebelt; Fabrizio, missing a coat and a lifebelt; Eugene Daly in his heavy overcoat that he would come to cherish; Maggie Daly all wrapped up, though less so than her husband; and Bertha Mulvihill, tagging along behind her neighbors and looking utterly confused.

Jack suddenly stopped short at the surprisingly opened entrance to E Deck.

"Come on!" Tommy shouted, obviously annoyed at the holdup.

"No, c'mon, let's go this way," Jack decided, darting down the hall. We passed a woman on the ground, sobbing and pleading with her husband, and a Syrian family, desperately trying to translate the sign that simply read: E Deck Berthing. "This way!" Jack shouted again, running up a small flight of stairs.

It was there that I was met with yet another annoying steward whose voice grated on my very nerves.

"Just go _back_ to the main stairwell, and everything will be sorted out _there_."

"The hell it will!" one man said gruffly.

"It _will_ all get sorted back there! Go _back_ to the main stairwell!" the steward persisted.

There was less room at this stairwell and considerably fewer people, so this time, I had a better view of the argument with the steward. Honestly, were these people remotely aware that they were about to die?

"Open the gate," Jack ordered.

"Go back down the main stair," the steward snapped at once; he wasn't playing games.

"We've just been there and _nothing_ is getting sorted out!" I said half to the steward and half to myself. I knew it made no difference—the idiot was resolute.

"Open the gate right now!" Jack said, louder and more viciously than before.

"Go back down the main stairwell like I _told_ you!" the steward said, undaunted. I certainly would have been fazed if I were him, but there again, he didn't know Jack like I did.

Jack turned as if he would back down—we were all starting to roll our eyes and turn to find a different way out—but suddenly he lurched at the gate, shaking it and shouting, "God _damn_ it! Son of a _bitch_!"

"Stop that!" the steward ordered, sounding thoroughly annoyed.

"Open the damn gate! Open it!" Eugene demanded.

Jack had darted behind Rose and I, and we saw that he was pulling up a bench off the ground. "Move aside!" we shouted, pushing people back against the walls.

"Fabri, Tommy, gimme a hand!" Jack shouted as we cleared the way for them.

Fabrizio, Tommy and Eugene all ran to help Jack, dislodging the bench from its resting place and holding it up as a battering ram.

"Put that down! Put that down!" the steward bellowed, sounding as if he didn't believe they would do it. "Stop that!" His companion ran off, leaving the steward to back up from the gate.

"One! Two! Three!" Jack roared.

All four of them let out growling noises as they ran forward and knocked the bench against the gates, hard.

"Again!" Jack ordered. They obliged, growling again as they battered the gate down. There were some cheers as the gate pathetically crumpled under the gate. Jack and Fabrizio climbed over it, urging the rest of us to come. Tommy helped Rose over first and then me, climbing onto the bench after us.

"You can't go up there! You can't do this!" the steward persisted.

One punch from Tommy and he was out like a light. With that, we ran and ran until we burst out onto the boat deck.


	16. Upon the Chaos Dark and Rude

A/N: Part of me is glad to be back on schedule while the other part is extremely annoyed, mainly due to sleep deprivation and a horrifying amount of work. Stupid AP exams. Point being, this will be a very short author's note. In fact, it's almost over.

Huge thanks to **hippogriff-tamer, Megfly, Gaslight,** and **Rookss. **for reviewing last chapter!

* * *

_Most Holy Spirit! Who didst brood_

_Upon the chaos dark and rude,_

_And bid its angry tumult cease,_

_And give, for wild confusion, peace;_

_Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,_

_For those in peril on the sea!_

When we spilled out onto the boat deck, it was another one of the most confusing scenes I've ever witnessed. Light, cheery music could be heard distinctly, and for a moment, I wondered if I had lost all faculties. People were everywhere, some with lifebelts and some without. The tilt of the ship was more pronounced up here, and I felt myself stumble. The freezing cold air hit me so suddenly that I couldn't breathe for a moment; although my body was protected by my coat, my face and hands were left exposed to the cold. There were some screams from hysterical women and the shouts of officers and crewmembers; in general, it was close to pandemonium.

"The boats are gone!" Rose cried in disappointment.

"Shit!" I hissed, grabbing two fistfuls of hair in frustration. I couldn't believe that we had actually _missed_ the boats! How could some of these people look so calm when all means of escape was _lost_?! We were going to die on this ship, and that stupid band was playing _music_!

Jack ran to the railing and climbed up onto it, looking around hurriedly for a boat. We were all standing on the tips of our toes and craning our necks, swiveling around to see if we might locate one of those boats. I didn't understand—surely, I thought, there had to be more. I knew that most ships didn't have quite enough lifeboats for _all_ of the passengers, but there were usually still enough for _most_ of them. There were still _so many_ people running about on the decks…and there were no more boats that we could see.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," I moaned over and over.

Jack jumped down from his perch and began to run off again when Rose stopped short in front of a man dressed in his dinner clothes. I would later become better acquainted with this man, but I had no way of knowing that at the moment. He had two ladies with him; at the time, I had assumed them to be his wife and daughter or some other relation, but I now know them to be Mrs. John Murray Brown and Miss Edith Evans, the latter of whom did not survive. But that is a tale for another person to tell; not me.

"Colonel, are there any boats on that side?" Rose asked him, causing the rest of us to stumble to a stop.

"No, miss, but there are a couple of boats all the way forward. This way, I'll lead you," he offered.

But we didn't wait; we ran ahead, our feet slapping against the hardwood deck as we went to find a lifeboat. As we ran, we darted past the band that bravely played into the night. It was a light, staccato tune that was meant to calm down the passengers.

"Music to drown by; now I _know_ I'm in first-class!" Tommy joked.

"I don't think this is the best time for laughs!" I threw over my shoulder.

"Well, we won't be laughin' anymore tonight!" Tommy retorted.

He had a point there.

We came to a lifeboat that was lettered with _Number Two_. They were loading what was left of the women and children still on board, shouting for the men to keep back. It became so anarchic that Officer Lightoller, who I would later learn was overseeing the loading of that particular boat, shot a couple of bullets into the air to restore order. "Women and children only!" he shouted. "Get back!"

Lightoller has maintained a reputation for his policy during the sinking: instead of women and children _first,_ it was women and children _only_. It's said he almost didn't allow John Borie Ryerson on a boat because he was thirteen and didn't look like a child. Of course it was just our luck to get him. I didn't want to part from Jack, Tommy and Fabrizio; they were my boys and I couldn't leave them to die. I _couldn't_. And Rose…well, I can only assume she felt the same way about Jack. I almost felt a camaraderie with her at that moment, even though we had never been particularly close.

Jack turned to Tommy, Fabrizio and me. "You'd better check the other side."

We hesitated; what about Jack? And what if there was no lifeboat on the other side; what would happen to us then?

"Go!" Jack urged. I assumed he knew what was best, so I turned to go with Tommy and Fabrizio. Jack had never led us astray before.

Tommy led the way, pushing through the crowd and leaving Fabrizio and me to tread in his wake. We almost got separated a few times, and although I know it sounds childish, I grabbed their hands so that I wouldn't lose them. I couldn't afford to lose anyone; not now. And speaking of losing someone…

I stopped short. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit!"

"What?" Tommy and Fabrizio asked at the same time, stopping and turning to look at me worriedly.

"I left the McFarlands! I promised I would go get them!" I exclaimed. I turned to run back inside—all rational thought had left me.

"No!" they yelled, once more in unison, yanking me back.

"Are yeh bloody insane?!" Tommy exclaimed. "Yeh can't go back in there!"

"But…but they'll die…" I protested, floundering against their grips on me.

"Angie," Tommy said shortly, grabbing my arms and shaking me until I stilled. "Yeh can't go back. Kathleen's smart, she's probably gotten the kids out by now. This ship won't be up fer much longer; we hafta get _off_. All right?"

I bit my lip and nodded. He was right; if I went back down there, I would die for sure. I sent up a quick prayer to God to help them before I slipped my clammy hands inside their larger, calloused ones again and we set off once more for the other side. We had to make our way through a tangle of people, in which we found the Gundersons. I only caught a fleeting glimpse of them, however; Tommy had pulled me on, and when I turned to find them again, they were gone. It heartened me to know that at least they had gotten up to the deck.

On the other side of the deck, the men had propped up oars against the promenade and were trying to "ease" one of the collapsible Englehardts onto the deck. A distinctly Scottish voice was shouting out orders while another officer was yelling, "Women and children only, damn you!"

The collapsible came down with a crunch, snapping most of the oars and stirring up some shouts of surprise. A few men who had been helping with it up on the platform tumbled over, hitting the bottom of the collapsible before rolling off of its smooth, unused surface.

"Get these davits cranked in! Then get the falls hooked up!" the Scottish officer barked. I had never seen davits like this before; they were a new type called Wellin davits that no tramp steamer I had ever sailed upon had had. I later heard that some of the crewmembers weren't even sure how to use the davits; another inefficiency of the White Star Line.

The Englehardt lifeboat was soon swallowed up by a crowd comprised mostly of men. The crowd surged and pulsed, alive and nervous. It seemed as if there were hardly any women left; I have no idea where all of those women who perished could have disappeared to while fathers and husbands and brothers and sons were denied life. The Scottish officer and his colleague kept shouting orders at us, mostly "Stop pushing!" and "Stay back!" And "Women only, no men!"

"You, miss, come forward!" the British one commanded as soon as he had spotted me.

I turned to Tommy and Fabrizio. "Get on with me."

"I'd like ter, lass, but they won't let us," Tommy reminded me.

I shook my head. "I don't want to get on alone. Please."

"There are other women, Angie; you are not alone," Fabrizio tried to assure me.

"But what if you die?!" I exclaimed. "I don't _want_ you to die!" I continued, rather childishly.

"We'll be fine," Tommy assured me. "Lass, yeh have to get on. Now."

I bit my lip before throwing my arms around his neck and hugging him. I would have never, ever tried to hug Tommy before, but under the circumstances, I felt it was permissible. I almost cried when Tommy hugged me back; this man made out of piss and vinegar had compassion. When he released me, I turned to Fabrizio. We practically squeezed the air out of one another; he was truly like my brother. I could tell Fabrizio anything and everything. He knew every single one of my secrets. I had trouble enough parting with Tommy—Fabrizio was ten times harder to leave. We kissed each other's cheeks a few times, promising to see each other again in "_l'America_" soon.

And then, I stepped out of the crowd. I was snatched up immediately; the Scottish officer grabbed my arm and led me rather forcefully to the boat. Two crewmembers held out their arms as if to lift me over the edge and into the boat, but I ignored them and climbed into the boat by myself; I was unaccustomed to being treated like a lady and I was perfectly capable of doing it myself. I made sure I had a seat close to the bow of the boat, facing Tommy and Fabrizio. They offered encouraging smiles and it was all I could do to return the gesture; I did not want to leave them here.

Eugene actually made it into the boat with Maggie and Bertha. They ordered him to go and he refused; finally, the crewmembers had to take hold of him and hurl him back into the crowd. It would have been humorous under different circumstances. I sat very still the whole time, my hands in my lap, waiting for them to give the order that men could get into the boat and for Tommy and Fabrizio to jump in beside me and we would all live on together. I was so convinced it would happen that I wasn't ready for the reality of the thing.

"Stop pushing! Stay back!" the Scottish officer bellowed.

"There are hardly anymore women; why can't you just let the men on?" some of us women shouted. We were ignored—he would have none of it. He was being stupid—it was taking forever to find women. What harm was there in allowing a man or two on the boat?

"Will yeh give us a chance ter live, yeh limey bastard?!" Tommy shouted at the Scottish officer.

"I'll shoot any man who tries to get past me! Get back!" the Scottish officer roared, holding up his revolver as proof.

"Bastard!" Tommy retorted, looking furious.

"Get back!" the Scottish officer repeated, his hand quivering. He held the revolver with both hands to steady it.

What happened next has stuck in my mind for some time; I suppose because it made my blood boil and my heart roar approval at the same time.

A wealthy man with slicked black hair (which was falling into his face, I might add) and a dinner tuxedo still on—albeit in a rather disheveled state—shoved his way to the front. He looked like one of those Ivy-League graduates who played squash or had been on the rowing team and took his holidays in Gstaad or some place that was equally stuffy. "We had a deal, damn you!" he said haughtily to the Scottish officer.

That was what made my blood boil. I couldn't believe that officers were so corrupt that they were actually accepting bribes to let men live. It was so, so wrong. I felt ill, knowing that this man who had struck a deal with such an arrogant stiff was responsible for my life.

The Scottish officer, much to my approval, pulled an _enormous_ wad of cash out of his pocket and threw it at the man. Bills scattered everywhere, so many that I swore under my breath. I know that the only reason nobody grabbed them was because they knew they were most likely going to die.

"Your money can't save you anymore than it can save me. Get _back_!" the Scottish officer snarled, pushing the swell back into the throng.

_That_ was what made my heart roar approval. So the man _had_ realized that money would be useless if he was dead.

The next part, however, changed any advocating feelings for the officer I might have had. I don't talk about this often, but I feel that nothing should be spared here. It all happened so quickly that I'm amazed I could keep up with it.

One man jumped up onto the davit and attempted to jump into the boat. The Scottish officer (for I know not what else to call him) shot the man in what I thought was the leg but was actually his abdomen, causing him to crumple onto the deck. Eugene has testified that the man was shot dead. Another man, also standing on a davit, lost his footing and fell, inadvertently pushing Tommy forward. The officer shot him as well, a blast of smoke clouding and then curling around a spot in his chest.

Tommy Ryan was dead before he hit the deck.


	17. Gargling Saltwater

A/N: So…I killed Tommy. I'm sorry; I really am. _Believe_ me, I did _not_ like shooting him! He's pretty much my favorite character. But…well, that's the way it is. I don't think it's really fair to twist canon to fit my own wants—not needs. He died for a reason. Not to mention that I felt that it would detract from Angie's story if Tommy miraculously lived (for the record, I did major medical research, and while there are a few rare cases where people have survived for hours without help, it was highly unlikely that a man suffering a bullet wound to the chest could pull through in freezing conditions and a rocky lifeboat). And really, it's just not fair that _so many_ women and children lost husbands and fathers and brothers and sons; what right do I have to save a man because I felt like it?

And so I had to let him die. I'm very sorry to those of you who wanted him to live—I am among you.

* * *

_O Trinity of love and power!_

_Our brethren shield in danger's hour;_

_From rock and tempest, fire and foe,_

_Protect them wheresoe'er they go;_

_Thus evermore shall rise to Thee_

_Glad hymns of praise from land and sea._

I remember screaming.

As Fabrizio caught Tommy, I jumped out of the boat and ran towards them. No one stopped me. Together, Fabrizio and I lifted him up, but it was too late; his eyes were closed and blood was pouring from his mouth. Tears blurred my vision; I blinked rapidly to see again. It wasn't just that Tommy _looked_ dead; he _felt _dead, too. His body was still in a way no human body ever should be; there was no breath inside of him and his heart had ceased to beat. I suppose I should be glad he died quickly instead of suffering in the cold water until he met his agonizing death, but still; if he had not been shot, he might have made it. He might have lived…

All the while I was crying, Fabrizio kept muttering, "Oh, Tommy, oh, no, oh no!" He looked up at the Scottish officer at one point and shouted, "_Bastardo!_"

There was no mistaking the insult.

I was less dignified than Fabrizio; while he had had the composure to only hurl one insult at Tommy's murderer, I hurled more. "You stupid bastard!" I spat. "He was pushed! He was _pushed_! Damn you, you son of a bitch!"

My voice broke on this last insult and I had to look away before I cried harder. I looked down, only to find Tommy's blood seeping down the deck, toward the man who had killed him. It seemed so wrong, so out of place that Tommy should be shot when the _Titanic_ was sinking. And all I could think of was _Why?_ Why had this happened? What had Tommy ever done to deserve this? He had not boasted that God could not sink this ship like so many others had; he had no reason to be punished.

I did not quite see what happened next, for I was still huddled over Tommy's lifeless body, mourning him with Fabrizio. I heard the other officer suddenly shout, "No, Will!"

And then, there was a gunshot. Some women screamed, and my natural reaction was to look up. All I saw was the flip of the Scottish officer's feet before he disappeared over the edge. A splash followed mere seconds later—he had taken his own life. I often wonder why he did it. Was it because he was afraid to die in the icy water? Was it because he felt the need to do penance for allowing a bribe? Was it because he shot Tommy and the other man? I will never know. The crowd stilled for a moment after his death, and then it pulsed and surged again.

"Stand back, damn you!" the other officer ordered, pushing the other men back.

And still, no one disturbed Fabrizio and me. We cradled Tommy's body and wept together. Sometimes, in traumatizing situations, people think of the stupidest things. At the moment, I remember thinking that Tommy's lifebelt had been a complete waste. I remember thinking that he couldn't be dead because we had to bury him, and how can you bury someone properly in water? My mind dulled; it's not surprising, when you consider that I had only gotten a couple hours of sleep and knew I was on a ship that was most definitely sinking, and quickly, if the tilting deck was any indication.

On the other side of the deck, I could hear a mournful but brave violin. It was joined after a few moments by the other instruments. Many people say that the song was an "Autumn Waltz" or some such thing. I conceded that the waltz was played near the end, but I also assure you that the very last piece the band played was very slow and perhaps the saddest music I have ever heard. I would later find out that it was "Nearer, My God, to Thee," but at the time, I had no idea what it was called. All I knew was that it was the most fitting music possible for that moment.

Water began to wash over the bow, pulling it down. People screamed and ran aft, some with lifebelts and some without. It was the water that brought me back to the present, and I remembered that the ship was sinking. Part of me wanted to stay and let it drown me; if Tommy was dead, what reason did I have for pushing on? But instinct took over, reminding me that I still had Fabrizio and that I _must_ survive.

"F-Fabri," I stuttered, shaking his arm.

He was staring ahead at the water, but he was numbly unfastening Tommy's lifebelt. I couldn't get up; no matter what, it seemed as if my knees were glued to the deck. Fabrizio, who had always been so nimble at fastening lifebelts, fumbled with the ties. He finally secured the blood-stained lifebelt and rose shakily to his feet as the water began to rush around our legs. He had to pull me up; my legs felt like jelly, and the shock of the freezing water did nothing to help.

The Englehardt had still not launched; the falls were holding it back. I couldn't climb in the lifeboat; the water was shocking me, refusing to let my legs work. The officer pointed his revolver at the falls and yelled, as water spattered on him, "Cut those bloody falls!"

Fabrizio whipped out his pocketknife and opened it with his teeth. He climbed up a little bit and sawed away at the ropes. I could only stand there stupidly, unsure of what to do or where to go. The boat was filling with water; its occupants began to edge to the bow, screaming as the water seeped up towards them. Water was rising all around me; I soon found myself lifted up by its sheer force. I paddled and kicked, screaming every time a wave of water washed over me.

Fabrizio disappeared under the surface and I shouted out his name, near hysteria. His head bobbed in and out of the water, gasping for air. He was struggling with something. I don't exactly remember how I knew to do it, but the next moment, I found myself under water, holding my breath and keeping my eyes open. The coldness and the salt stung, but I refused to close them. Fabrizio was trying to untangle himself from the davit ropes that had ensnared him. I pulled on a few, my fingers going numb, and he was finally free. We kicked to the turbulent surface, gasping for air.

"Come on, let's go this way!" he shouted, grabbing my hand and literally yanking me aft. I could only follow him, kicking to stay above the surface and holding up my head to breathe. The air that had felt so cold earlier was blessedly warm in comparison to the icy water I was submerged in now. I couldn't think; I could only let Fabrizio pull me. And then quite suddenly, he was being jerked away from me. My faculties snapped back when I saw that he was pushing against the wall surrounding a window big enough for Fabrizio to fit in. It is the opinion of several experts on the subject that the windows broke under the pressure of the water and water drained into them. The result was for them to suck in whatever might be nearest, including Fabrizio.

I braced my feet against the wall to his right and grabbed Fabrizio with as much strength as I could muster. We both pulled and struggled and floundered for a few moments before he had managed to get out of the sucking window.

"Come on!" he shouted to me as if nothing had happened. We grabbed hands again and set off again, our legs kicking furiously against the water. We grabbed onto the Englehardt, hoping to climb on, but the first-class snob from earlier was shouting and brandishing an oar like a madman. He was quite literally throwing people out and sometimes even whacking them with his oar to get them out of the boat, all the while shouting, "No, get out! You'll swamp us!"

"What do we do?" I bawled over the noise, my teeth chattering and my body shuddering involuntarily. My coat was warm, but it wasn't enough.

Fabrizio raised himself up, using his arms as leverage against the Englehardt, and craned his neck. He ducked down as the oar swung towards him, just missing it by inches. "Over there!" he shouted, pointing. "There is a boat! Go!"

I needed no further encouragement; I kicked off from the boat and dipped my arms in the water, propelling myself forward. Fabrizio was right behind me, both of us spitting out water and gasping for breath. My lifebelt, thankfully, kept me up, but still, it was not enough to compete against the surging water all around me. My ears were even filled with water as it dragged me down. It seemed as if the water itself was trying to kill me, and I had to fight harder than I have ever fought before to stay up.

Because water was in my ears, I could not properly distinguish the different noises I was hearing. There were screams and shouts and metallic groans and splashes. I did hear the metal groan viciously, but I did not hear how close it was to me. I kept swimming, pushing myself as far away from the ship as possible and as close to the overturned lifeboat as possible. I did not pause at the onslaught of fresh screams, and I think that it is by divine providence that I did not. I meant to turn and find Fabrizio, but an enormous force slammed into the water, a force I believe crushed Fabrizio and the others who had been swimming around us.

The resulting wave was huge, bigger than some of the waves at the beach in Pacific Grove or Santa Monica. My lifebelt kept me above it and it lifted me up before shoving me so far forward that it is a miracle I made it that far. It carried me to the overturned lifeboat without doing me any harm save momentarily taking my breath away; I have fervently believed in God ever since. Instinct told me to cling to the boat; I held on, for my life quite literally depended upon it, even as smaller but still powerful waves washed over me. Most of the men who had already been there were washed away; only a few maintained their hold on it.

When the water had stilled (relatively speaking), I clambered carefully into a more secure position, my soaking clothes pooling around me. I slipped a few times, especially when others clambered aboard as well, and I would have fallen off entirely if Eugene had not appeared right then and there.

"Angie?" he shouted over the noise.

I nodded vigorously. "Y-yes!"

He didn't say another word; he just grabbed my lifebelt and pulled me beside him. I rested my knees on the edge of the upturned Englehardt and let my legs float in the water; there was nothing else I could do. I gripped the bottom of the boat tightly and turned to look at the incredible and terrible sight. _Titanic_, in all of her glory and elegance, was rising horizontally above the water, an image of grace and beauty as her stern rose higher and higher. We could only stare, dumbstruck; so, this was how the Ship of Dreams was to sink—by sliding into the ocean she had once commanded.

The screams pierced the night air. They came from everywhere; on the ship, in the water, in the other boats. People tried to climb onto the boat, but many of the men shoved them off. I did not intentionally push anyone off, but when a few men tried to remove me so that they could take my place, I resisted as violently as I could until they gave up and tried a different person. Eugene, who was flush against me, offered just enough warmth to keep me holding onto the boat and mostly registering what was happening. I saw that one man was lying on the boat while another man sat on his legs; both panted for breath and the one lying down looked too tired to resist.

The lights on the grand ship flickered and suddenly went out. The only source of light now came from the stars, and they were not the most generous providers of light. Still, we could see the _Titanic_ as she rose, higher and higher, reaching to the sky. It looked, for a moment, as if she really would ascend into the heavens. But then there was a terrible splintering noise, a sound I did not think could come from something made of iron. The crunching and splintering grew louder, cracking into the night. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, the _Titanic_ was no longer a simple silhouette; I could see it clearly, and judging by the stillness and breathlessness of everyone around me, they could too.

The ship had split in two, right down the middle. The stern, which had been rising higher and higher, suddenly soared downwards to the ocean, smashing down on the water. The screams that arose were terrible; I flinched when I imagined the sensation they must be feeling. All thoughts of Tommy and Fabrizio were gone; every ounce of my concentration had been drawn to the giantess that had carried us over the ocean over the past few days. And then, just as suddenly as it had fallen, the stern, now mostly separated from the bow by a yawning chasm in the middle, was pulled into the air. The bow sank, leaving our vision completely. All that was left was the stern, poised gracefully and terrifyingly in a perfectly perpendicular position.

Even if I had wanted to take my eyes away from that sight, I could not. None of us could; once your eyes find something like that, you can't just simply look away. Some people say that the stern stood like that for half a minute. Others say it was five minutes. And still some others claimed it was half an hour, but this I know to be an exaggeration. The ship didn't even bob; at least, not that I can recall. It seemed to stand perfectly still. I know this is impossible; _Titanic_ could not have stood there and she could not have been entirely still. But it certainly looked that way from my vantage point.

Some say the ship slid into the water without a noise. This is not true. The witnesses who say so were on lifeboats, floating some distance away. We were closest to the ship and we heard the horrified screams that arose as the ship made its final descent. It rumbled as it sank, water surging up around it and disturbing the water. We bobbed more than we were comfortable with, but thankfully, it was not enough to completely buck us off. We watched in horrified fascination as the Great Lady foundered and left a puddle of screaming, freezing people on the surface it had once reined over.

Almost everyone on the Englehardt, myself included, said quietly, almost like a benediction, "She's gone."

The _Titanic_ was no more.


	18. An Absolution That Never Came

A/N: I almost forgot I was supposed to update this; AP exams equal having no life. But I remembered, thankfully. Anyway, I completely forgot to mention this last chapter, mostly because, well, I fail at life, but **Megfly** made an AWESOME picture of Angie! There's a link to this wonderful illustration on my profile; should be near the top!

I should probably mention that the vast majority of what is written in this chapter was largely based off of various survivor testimonies, especially that of Charles Lightoller. I've only ever read the _Titanic_ section of his book (still need to get around to reading, you know, the rest of it), but it is truly fascinating and helped me ENORMOUSLY.

I want to give huge thanks to **DawsonGurl, Megfly, Rookss, hippogriff-tamer, armygurl07,** and **G. W. Failure** for reviewing last chapter!

* * *

_O Spirit Whom the Father sent_

_To spread abroad the firmament,_

_O Wind of Heaven, by Thy might_

_Save all who dare the eagle's flight,_

_And keep them by Thy watchful care_

_From every peril in the air!_

As selfish as I may sound, I was and am truly grateful that our boat had drifted away from the splashing, roiling mass; otherwise, we might have been pulled into the water. The screams didn't last for long; the temperature of the water took its toll quickly. I have often marveled that we survived; our bodies were mostly submerged until dawn. When the screams and sobs had died down and those who had had the strength to paddle over to us (one of them was drunk, and he claims that the whiskey he drank warmed him and protected him, for the most part, from the icy water) had either left us alone or given in to exhaustion, someone asked if we knew the Hail Mary. I did not know it and so listened as most of the boat said it in reverent unison.

"Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death. Amen."

When the last "Amen" had been uttered, the same person asked if we knew the Lord's Prayer. This I knew; it was almost impossible not to have heard it. I managed to say it with the others, trying to concentrate on that and forget about my numb legs and wet clothes that had me shivering.

"Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever. Amen."

I couldn't help feeling that it was a very fitting prayer for the moment. Many have scorned God and asked how he can let the world be so evil. I heard this question frequently in regards to the _Titanic_, the _Lusitania_, and of course the wars. I wondered myself. But now I know that hubristic men boasted and bragged that God himself could not sink the Ship of Dreams. God proved them wrong in a way that, if they survived, they would never, _ever_ forget.

Before long, the only officer on the boat pointed out that we would lose the feeling in our legs if we continued to kneel on them, so we should try to stand. No one protested; he knew what he was doing and we were willing to do anything to survive. I nearly stumbled and I had to hold onto Eugene a few times to steady myself. The officer ordered all of us to stand facing the bow. Our feet were in the freezing water, but there was no other alternative. One man remained lying on the boat; his legs were too badly injured for him to stand. He was weaker than anyone, and none of us begrudged him; we would rather stand in the frigid water than have our legs in the pain he was in.

The officer's voice sounded familiar to me, and I soon recognized him as the one who had given me the time the other day. He had also been the one overseeing the loading of the first lifeboat we had gone to. I had disliked him then, but now, I depended on him. We all did. He would order us to lean to the left or to the right, or even to stand upright. In this way, we managed to keep our balance during the swells.

When someone, a teenager, I think, asked how long we would have to wait, the officer turned the question over to Jack Phillips, the senior wireless operator, for he was standing beside the officer. Phillips reported that a rescue ship, the _Carpathia_, was on its way and would be here by daylight. Phillips never did make it to see his calculations carried out; he was one of those who slipped off from exhaustion. We brought his body onto the _Carpathia_; he, at least, had the honor of being given a proper burial at sea.

Hours passed on Collapsible B. Lights has often remarked that if ever there was a time when human endurance was tested to the absolute limit, it was the freezing morning of April fifteenth, 1912. It was the kind of cold that you can never get used to, intensified at least ten times. I was, as the old saying goes, soaked to the bone, and I don't think I ever stopped shivering. We were too worn out to talk; it was all we could do to stay awake and lean to the sides when instructed. Even this was too much for some; a few men slipped off the boat and into the water, making a small splash as they succumbed to exhaustion. The boat would rock slightly after their weight had been removed, but we always shifted our weight until we were still again.

Although we never spoke to one another on the Englehardt, we did a great deal of talking on the _Carpathia_; I soon found out that my other companions that morning were Eugene Daly, Second Officer Charles "Lights" Lightoller, Colonel Archibald Gracie, Jack Phillips, Harold Bride, Chief Baker Charles Joughin (the drunk man), a cook named Isaac Maynard, Patrick O'Keefe, Algernon Barkworth, Jack Thayer Jr., William Mellors, Edward Dorking, Albert Moss, Victor Sunderland, a trimmer named Ernest Allen, David Livshin (he was one of those who died), Walter Hurst, Charles Judd, Harry Senior, a Mr. Hebb, James McGann, John O'Connor, Eustace Snow, George Prangnell, Thomas Whiteley, Sidney Daniels, Charles Fitzpatrick and John Collins.

Most of these men were firemen and trimmers and stewards and such; it seemed that most of the actual passengers had managed to get off safely. I had thought that was a good thing at the time, that the boats were able to take away men; I soon learned that some of these men had shouldered their way onto boats and left families to perish. I was the only woman aboard and the youngest person there. It earned me more attention than I liked; I don't think that anyone should be made a hero when all they did was survive. I came to be on very good terms with some of them; others, I have not seen since docking in New York.

We were all exhausted. I'm lucky that Eugene was directly behind me; whenever I would nod off, he would pinch my ear, just enough to wake me up, and I would catch myself and remain alert for at least a few moments afterwards. We were there until dawn, when the blessed sun finally rose. It brought a warmth that you cannot imagine, feeble as it was; anything felt warm when compared to the brisk night air we had been exposed to. However, the fact remained that the boat was gradually sinking. All of us were weighing it down, and since we couldn't very well push anyone off, we had to allow our legs to be submerged in the icy water. It didn't feel quite so terrible as time wore on; my legs grew numb and then the water warmed ever so slightly when the sun came up.

We eventually caught the attention of lifeboats numbers four and twelve. Although they, too, were loaded down with passengers, they had not reached their maximum (few of the first boats to launch had) and there was room for more. The water was practically up to my waist by this time and it was all I could do to stay up. My ears throbbed from all the times Eugene had to pinch me and I wanted to cry from exhaustion, but I was too tired to even do that. Lifeboat Four came over to the side I was standing on, and Lights (as I would later call him) asked that "the young lady be the first." Apparently, the rule of "women and children first" still applied in his mind.

I remember very little of being transported from Collapsible B to Lifeboat Four. I remember that two men reached out to help me while the occupants of Boat Four scooted to the back. Nearly all of them were first-class, and for once, they were not regarding me with scorn. Instead, they looked at me with pity and kindness. One man took my left arm and, after Eugene helped to steady me, I pushed off and my right arm was caught by the other man. I remember putting my left foot on the edge of the boat before going dizzy. After that, I recall almost nothing of the boat ride. I'm told that Madeleine Astor, one of the occupants of the boat, asked if there were any blankets for me. I never spoke to her, but I am touched by her compassion; as a distressed young widow in the family way, she certainly had no cause to spare a thought for anyone else. I would not have blamed her if she did.

While in the boat, I dreamed. I dreamt that I was sinking into the water, down to where the broken _Titanic_ finally rested. I floated down to the deck, the first-class section, and as if I knew where to go, I glided right inside. I went down a hallway, feeling as if this were the most natural thing in the world. I came to a pair of glass doors, where inside, I could see hundreds of passengers gathered around the Grand Staircase. Two smiling, uniformed men opened the doors for me and I came through. Standing there were the Gundersons, the Cartmells, the McFarlands, the Dahls, and most importantly, my boys.

Fabrizio and Helga had their arms linked, he leaning against the railing of the stairs. Jack was at the top of the stairs, staring at the clock. Tommy stepped out from the crowd, holding his hat and grinning. I moved forward but he shook his head, halting me.

"It's not yer time yet, Angie," he told me, shaking his head and smiling still.

"But I'm ready," I found myself protesting. "I want to be here, with you, with all of you."

"But it's not yer time," Tommy told me again, patient. "Yer time will come. But not today. Not now. You'll come back ter us someday. But not now."

And then, just like that, I felt myself gliding backwards, leaving the room and going back down the hallway and floating up from the _Titanic_. I find myself repeating that dream continually; Tommy's answer is always the same. When I reached the surface, I jerked and awoke.

"Ah, there she is," someone said.

"Are you all right?" another voice asked.

I sat up slowly; I was in the bottom of Lifeboat Four. Clean, feminine faces peered down at me, their finery evident at once. Everything came rushing back to me.

"Eugene…" I tried to say, but my voice was hoarse and it cracked.

"Oh, you poor thing, we'll get you some water onboard," one woman fussed.

"I'm here," Eugene's voice announced; I turned and saw him sitting beside me, looking somewhat uncomfortable. But he smiled when I found him. "Amazing, innit, that you need some water after last night."

I could have cried when he said that, but there was just nothing left in me to cry. So I closed my eyes and leaned against the side of the boat.

"Ah, you don't want to be doing that, lass," he said patiently.

"Why not?" I asked sleepily; I could have drifted off again right then and there. I wanted to go back to _Titanic_ and demand Tommy let me stay; anything to ease the aching exhaustion suffocating me.

"Because we're about to board."

I opened my eyes again and looked behind me, where everyone else was looking; sure enough, a steamer loomed over us. The lettering on the side confirmed that this was the _Carpathia_, our rescue ship. I admit that I was momentarily taken aback by its size; after the ship I had sailed upon and watched sink, this steamer with only one funnel seemed miniscule! But there again, everything was miniscule when compared to the _Titanic_. Passengers from the other boats were carefully ascending a rope ladder; the sight of those extravagant ladies in their fur and feathers would have struck me as amusing were it a different situation.

When our turn to board came, the men in the boat steadied it against the ship, positioned at the base of the rope ladder. There was no particular order; whoever was nearest climbed. When my turn came, I forced myself to hang on, telling myself that after this, I could sleep for as long as I wanted to. I had to pause once or twice; dizziness threatened to send me back down the ladder every now and then. But finally, I made it. Two uniformed seamen with "Cunard Line" emblazoned on their hats pulled me over the edge without asking. I was grateful; I lacked the strength to do so myself.

As soon as they had let go of me, a uniformed man asked me my name. I must have given it to him, although I don't remember much of it, because he wrote it down. A woman offered me another blanket (I was still wearing the one Mrs. Astor had obtained for me) and a mug, but I shook my head and kept walking; I was too tired for the blanket to benefit me much, and I knew I wouldn't be able to hold onto a mug, let alone drink from it. All I wanted was to sleep.

I didn't stand in the crowd and wait like so many others were doing; I was overcome with exhaustion. I slowly untied my lifebelt as I made my way to a place where I could sit. Fabrizio had fastened these ties for me. I could not even cry at this at that moment. I finally came to a wall on the steerage deck (I was directed there by a harried-looking steward without asking) and I fell against it, holding my lifebelt loosely in one hand. The minute my head had settled against the wall, I was asleep.


	19. The Carpathia

A/N: I'm afraid there's not much to be said this time around. I suppose it's worth mentioning that AP exams are almost over, thus giving me more time to write. Although I'm mainly fixated on _Heroes_ now. Anyway.

The description of Harold Bride here really took on a life of its own. I wrote him based off of some newspaper articles where he was featured, and then he demanded to be written a certain way, and of course I obliged. I have no idea what he was like in real life, but I'd certainly like to imagine I've portrayed him accurately.

Enormous thanks to **Rookss., Megfly, DawsonGurl, hippogriff-tamer,** and **Gaslight** for reviewing last chapter!

* * *

We were ghosts on the _Carpathia_. Some were reunited with loved ones, their joyous shouts startling those of us who heard them. Most, however, cried over those they had lost, hysterically searching for them and shrieking when they were not to be found. I doubt there was anyone who did not lose someone that they knew. Some people accepted it. Others could not. They asked ridiculous questions at times, unable to comprehend that whomever they had lost was not going to come back.

"Could not another ship have picked them up?"

"Could they not possibly be in some boat overlooked by the _Carpathia_?"

"Was it not possible that he might have climbed onto an iceberg?"

I heard such questions whenever I was around survivors, and they were all asked in earnest. Many had not the heart to tell these poor souls that they hoped for the impossible. I was thankful I did not have to answer these questions; Lights, who I became very close to during the journey to New York, remarked that he saw no other option but to be frank in his replies. That first day was awful, what little I saw of it; I slept for most of the day, curled up on the deck. Eugene and Maggie and Bertha finally found me at around ten in the morning, and we stayed together for as long as we were on the _Carpathia_.

I slept on and off throughout the day, sitting awake for as long as half an hour and sleeping for as long as three hours at a time. I remember eating part of a sandwich (I wasn't hungry, but since Maggie was insistent, I ate as much as I could) and drinking some coffee mixed with what I suspect was brandy. A doctor examined each of us and pronounced us perfectly fine, claiming that all we needed was some good food and plenty of rest. This was difficult to argue with, so as soon as he was gone, I fell asleep again.

After the lifeboats had been emptied, the _Carpathia_ came to where _Titanic_ had foundered to see if there were any survivors; predictably, there were none. Only floating, white corpses that made me feel ill. I wondered how many people I knew were bobbing there. Maggie made me lay down again after this. The _Californian_, another steamer, arrived before long, and according to Eugene, they continued the search while we went on to New York. Before we left, however, Captain Rostron, the skipper of the _Carpathia_, gathered everyone together for a brief service. He and the chaplain of the ship gave thanksgiving for the seven hundred survivors before leading us in a prayer to pray for the over fifteen hundred people who had been lost.

Out of twenty-two hundred people, fifteen hundred died while only seven hundred had lived. In a way, I believed it; I had seen for myself all of those people clinging to the ship as it sank, I had seen the victims in the water. But it was also very hard to believe. How could this have happened? How could _so many_ people have perished because of one iceberg? How was it _fair_? I do not believe that _anyone_ should have died; I would not wish such a fate on my worst enemy. The screams I heard that night can still sound clearly in my ears; they were the most awful, awful sounds ever to be heard. _No one_ should have died that night; every one of them was innocent.

It is often said that everything will seem better in the morning; I can assure you with the utmost certainty that this is not _always_ the case. On the morning of April sixteenth, I didn't want to wake up. I had slept all the previous day and night, but still, I wanted to crawl into the solitude that only a dreamless unconsciousness can offer. I say dreamless because the dreams I had had, save the one where I returned to the sunken _Titanic_, were nightmares in the very worst possible way. I saw the _Titanic_ sink over and over, heard helpless screams, watched Tommy being shot again and again. The first nightmare, which I didn't have until late in the night, brought the first tears to my eyes since the sinking; finally, I felt something other than exhaustion. We had slept outside on the deck with many other passengers; I had slept outside for most of my life and I had grown quite fond of it.

The sea air did little to whet my appetite; I was hungry not once that day, and if I ate, it was only because Maggie insisted upon it. I would have been content to sit in a corner with a large bottle of whiskey and forget the pain, but of course, that did not happen. Bertha and the Dalys kept talking, and for some reason, it made me sick. I wanted to be alone, and I finally slipped away from them and retreated to another part of the deck. It wasn't that I didn't like them; quite the contrary. But I needed some solace. I walked for about two hours before they found me; by that time, I was able to sit with them again.

Eugene sat next to me after they had talked for quite some time and I, of course, had remained silent. He said in a low voice, "Your friend, Jack…did you love him?"

I paused for a moment before nodding. "Yes, I loved Jack. And Fabrizio. And Tommy. I loved all three of them. And I never once told them. None of them." My voice cracked. "And they're gone now."

Eugene nodded understandingly. "I think…that they knew. In their hearts, they knew."

We shared a look for a moment that said more than any words could before I turned to look at the horizon. And that was all there was to be said for the moment.

Most of the other survivors of Collapsible B ran into one another somewhere or other, introducing ourselves and relating our experiences. I did not think I would be able to talk about it, but I surprised myself in that I could speak openly with the other fellows who had been with me on the Englehardt. It was in this way that I came to be on very good terms with Lights, Jack Thayer, Patrick O'Keefe, Algie Barkworth, Edward Dorking, John Collins and Tom Whiteley. There were other men there, of course, but we never became quite as close as I did with the aforementioned.

I was awoken by a nightmare at around midnight that night and I went for a walk to calm myself when I came across Lights. He, too, was unable to sleep, and we talked for a long time, leaning against the railing on the third-class decks. Just what we talked about, I can't quite remember, but we parted as very good friends. He even introduced me the next day to Fifth Officer Harold Lowe, another _Titanic_ hero. The two officers had never met before boarding in Belfast, but in the ensuing three weeks, they had become very close, especially in light of the disaster they had both struggled through. We were all survivors, yes, but they had been heroes.

On Wednesday, April seventeenth, I went in search of Lights. I was not entirely sure where to find him, and so I tried the Marconi wireless operating room. Harold Bride was in there, alone; the _Carpathia_'s wireless operator, Harold Cottam, had just gone off for lunch. I did not think that Harold would recognize me; he had been in the Marconi room ever since awakening after the disaster and we had not talked on the Englehardt. But he turned around as best he could (his legs were badly injured from the cold and the way they had been sat upon by the man I described earlier) and smiled at me.

"Ah, yes; you'd be…Angie Marshall, am I correct?"

I nodded, dumbfounded. "Well…yes."

"Lights told me," he supplied at once. "I thought I recognized you from the boat. I see you're still holding up."

"So are you," I said bluntly. "Shouldn't you be in the infirmary or something? They told me you can't walk."

"No, I can't," he admitted. "But all I have to do here is sit, and that's easy enough. I have my meals brought to me and I keep myself busy."

That was an understatement; he had bags under his eyes from all of the work he and Cottam had been doing. Everyone wanted to assure their families that they were all right or that someone had been lost; things were so busy that some messages didn't even get sent.

"I suppose you want to tell your people you're alive and well," he went on, looking surprisingly cheerful. "I'm not supposed to, but I can do you one right now; after all, you _are_ the only lady who was on that collapsible."

This was the one occasion in my life that I was truly annoyed by Harry Bride; I _hated_ being reminded that I was the only lady and the youngest person on that Englehardt. But I held my tongue; Harold didn't know that it irked me. And besides, the poor fellow was overworked and suffering from a sprained ankle and a frostbitten leg. I shook my head. "Thanks, but…well, I don't have any 'people.'"

He raised an eyebrow. "No? No one at all? No one who might be worried over you?"

I shook my head. "No; the only people I had were…well…you know."

Harry, as he would later insist I call him, nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry," he said in a voice that suggested he truly meant it. "If you don't mind my asking…who were they?"

I didn't mind him asking; he had been through just as much as, if not more than, me. "They were like brothers to me, Jack and Fabrizio. And Tommy, too, I suppose, but I didn't meet him until the eleventh. We—Jack, Fabrizio and I, that is—traveled all over Europe together. They won _Titanic _tickets in a poker game and, well, we thought we were lucky." I felt a hard lump in my throat, a lump I came to associate with talking about the _Titanic_. "Well…I'll leave you to your work now," I said, gesturing to the toppling pile of messages.

"Oh, yes; fun, these," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Harry, I found, was wonderful company. Not that I had much of a chance to talk to him on the _Carpathia_; he was much too overworked. We met up several times in New York until he had to return to England; at that point, we began exchanging letters. He never liked to discuss the _Titanic_, and he, too, detested the fame that accompanied being a survivor.

* * *

On Thursday, April eighteenth, we steamed into New York Harbor at eight-thirty in the evening. Rain poured unrelentingly and thunder boomed every now and then; there couldn't have been a better way to end our voyage. The Americans onboard made sounds of joy and relief at seeing their home country, but I did not. I had never had a home; not really. I suppose that Pacific Grove had been my home, but I hardly remembered it. No, home was wherever Jack and I and later Fabrizio would sit to rest. Where was home for me now? I supposed I could work something out in New York, but until I got the money, I would have to sleep in the alleys, and from what I had heard, New York alleys leave something to be desired.

As they were setting up the gangplank and everyone was slowly making their way to the decks (I say slowly because most of the passengers had had enough of being wet for one voyage and many people were trying their hardest to avoid being soaked again), I went inside to find Bertha and the Dalys and instead found Lights talking to Harry Bride. Harry was sitting in a chair, waiting for a wheelchair to be brought up the gangplank for him.

"Hullo, Angie Marshall," Harry said cheerfully. "You look wet."

"I wonder why," I returned, almost smiling; it felt good to joke again.

"We were just discussing the Enquiries," Lights explained, sounding thoroughly annoyed at the subject. "Did you know that they intend on sailing us back to England _directly_ after the American Enquiries?"

"Enquiries?" I asked, confused. "What Enquiries?"

"Well, see, they're _trying_ to find someone to blame the sinking on," Harry offered, rolling his eyes.

"But that's stupid!" I huffed. "It wasn't anyone's _fault_!"

"Oh, you'd be surprised at what politicians can come up with," Lights said seriously. "They'll no doubt blame the collision on the incompetence of the crew or the fact that we lost the binoculars in Southampton or that we were heading too fast through too dangerous an area or that a cursed mummy lay in the cargo hold or some such nonsense; you believe me, they'll latch onto anything."

"And the stupider, the better," Harry added.

Lights nodded. "Precisely." He fished something out of his pocket then and handed it to me.

"What's this?" I asked, unfolding the slip of paper.

"It's my Southampton address," he replied, sounding almost uncomfortable. "Just…if you should ever feel the need to write me or if you are ever in England again…well…there you have it."

I tucked it carefully into my coat pocket, ignoring Harry as he said, "Aww. Can I give you my address too?"

"Thank you," I said quietly. I hugged Lights then. He patted me on the back awkwardly; although we both knew he didn't mind, we also both knew that he would never break his crisp façade. Lights never was one to be outwardly sentimental.

I wished them both the best of luck, the sentiment was repeated back to me, and we parted. I found Eugene, Maggie and Bertha shortly afterwards, discussing living arrangements. I was waiting for them to come on, not bothering to partake in the conversation, when Maggie turned to me. "And yeh might have to share a room with Bertha, Angie, is that all right?"

I blinked. "I…what?"

Maggie repeated her question. Seeing the look on my face, she gasped. "Oh, Angie, yeh didn't really think we would leave yeh after this, didja?"

I shrugged. "Well…yes, I suppose."

Maggie tsked. Eugene smiled, shaking his head. "Nah, lass, I'm afraid you're stuck with us."

And so it came to pass that I found a home with Eugene and Maggie Daly in New York City.


	20. Life Commences

A/N: So, I was afraid that I would never get away from the post-prom party (seriously, I have never spent that much time at IHOP before in my life), but I FINALLY got home and finished uploading all those pictures on Facebook and remembered, "Oh, yeah, I have a fic I need to update!" So I edited this chapter and then collapsed.

Anyways. Moving on. I'm afraid that this chapter is not as good as the others. It just isn't. I can't exactly explain why; once the ship goes away, everything seems to suck. And I almost fell asleep editing this. Of course, I _did_ stay up until 5 on Sunday, so…

Major thanks to **Rookss., hippogriff-tamer, DawsonGurl, Megfly, TKJeane, armygurl07** and **Gaslight** for reviewing last chapter! Thank you all so much for sticking with me!

* * *

Stepping onto the dock was like taking a breath of fresh air. Living in New York City was like having that breath of fresh air knocked out of you.

Henry Noon, Bertha's fiancé, ushered her off to Providence, Rhode Island the very night we docked, leaving the three of us to scrap and scrape for ourselves. It was a miserable existence in New York. Eugene, after working a number of odd-jobs, finally settled with a position that offered very decent pay at the Otis Elevator Company. Maggie took up housekeeping for a well-to-do family while I worked as a hotel maid once more. It took months for us to pay off debts and buy most of what we needed. We never put money in a bank; there simply wasn't enough to store in a place as important as a bank when the linings of our mattresses held our bills quite neatly.

I lived there for quite some time, with Eugene and Maggie. We became something like a family, albeit a strange one. I soon found that although I would gladly leave my job at the Sheffield Arms in favor of traveling, I knew that I couldn't leave Eugene and Maggie to fend for themselves on their meager pay while there were still so many bills and debts to be paid off. Not to mention Eugene's friend Jimmy, who called him often to ask if he could borrow a few bucks. Jimmy became a frequent caller at our flat.

We all have our little vices. After that great ship sank, many turned to the drink to take away their pain. Some turned to opium dens. I found my solace in laudanum. It was cheaper than a bottle of gin, mainly because it was used for medicinal purposes, and I often found myself crawling inside the bottle. It felt so _good_ to enter that hazy world where I couldn't feel or even think, but most importantly, I couldn't _remember_. I forgot the stark white faces with frozen looks of horror etched on their haunting faces, the icy fire of the water.

Bertha was the one to find the bottle under my bed during one of her visits. She knew it wasn't for medicinal purposes; if it was, I wouldn't have hidden it. She could have yelled at me and probably should have—I _know_ she should have poured the bottle down the drain. But what she did made me feel far worse. She put the bottle back under the bed and left me in my room without a word or even a glance. I threw the bottle out the window as soon as I trusted my shaky legs to get up. I haven't touched laudanum since, although I suppose that goes without saying; the Harrison Narcotics Tax Act of 1914 restricted opiates, and now doctors are saying that it does not help pain at all and it is becoming rarer and rarer in prescriptions.

* * *

In 1914, on my eighteenth birthday (the day that Jack had ordained as my birthday, anyway), I received a third-class ticket to England onboard the Cunard steamer the _Lusitania_. I stared up at the beaming Dalys in shock. "I don't…"

"Well, we finally scraped up enough money, the two of us," Eugene explained, wrapping an arm around his wife's shoulders. "We don't have enough for us to go, nor can we leave right now, but you can."

After much protesting, I finally accepted it. I only had one request, though: for my destination to be changed from Southampton to Queenstown. I had been meaning for some time to go find Tommy's family and tell them that I had been there during his death. I didn't know how much comfort it would bring them, but I figured that now that I had a ticket, it was worth a try, at least.

Cunard Line wired the extra money back to me (a ticket to Queenstown cost less than a ticket to Southampton) and on February first, two weeks after my birthday, I walked up a gangplank for the first time in almost two years. This time, I was alone. I confess that I was terrified at times and I often stayed up past midnight, afraid the _Titanic _disaster would be repeated. We passed through the iceberg fields without any incidents at all and arrived in Queenstown perfectly on schedule.

Maggie and Eugene had written their families all over Ireland, asking if anyone could help me get from Queenstown to Boher, the town Tommy had claimed to live in. Some relatives readily agreed to do so after hearing that I had been with the Dalys on the _Titanic_. So I was met at the dock by two gawky teenage boys from the O'Connell family, who were second cousins to Eugene or something. They escorted me to the train station where I purchased a ticket to Boher. I got there the next afternoon. The town was small; its largest establishment was the pub. I could really see Tommy strutting down the streets, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth as he made his way to the pub.

Unfortunately, I had nowhere to go until I found out where the Ryans lived and I was trying to save my money for a steamer ticket; I didn't know how long I would stay in Ireland, but I doubted it would be long enough to get a job. I set down my sack for a moment, trying to figure out what to do now. Quite a few people stared; from what I could gather, this was a small, everybody-knows-everybody town, and I was most definitely foreign to these parts. My best bet was to try the pub; if there was a place Tommy would frequent, that was it. So I hoisted my sack back over my shoulder and headed there. Not many men were inside; just a few old bums nursing beers. They were so hung over that they didn't even look up as I made my way through the maze of rickety tables and chairs to the bar.

The bartender was a typical cliché found in most books and films; brawny, muscular, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and, predictably, wiping a glass clean. I could have laughed at the quaintness of it all. He glanced up at me and raised one black eyebrow, looking only mildly surprised; I don't imagine that much of anything surprises bartenders. "Can I help yeh, lass?"

I set down my sack and leaned my forearms on the counter. He leaned back a bit as I did so; after two years in America and away from Europe, I had forgotten that most Europeans find Americans extremely forward. I leaned back until I was resting only my hands on the counter. "Excuse me, but do you know if there are any Ryans living here?"

He nodded, continuing his methodical wiping of the glass. "Aye, that I do; which one 'r yeh looking fer?"

I paused for a moment. "Well, actually, I'm not sure."

"Sit 'er down, have a drink 'r two," the bartender invited.

I shook my head. "No, thank you; I'm afraid I don't have much money to spare. I'm saving some for a ticket to England, and I don't even know if I'll need money there or not."

"Then have a seat, at least," the bartender said, shrugging.

I obliged.

"Now, about these Ryans yer lookin' fer…there're several Ryans in these parts, some from different families," the bartender explained.

I bit the inside of my cheek. "Erm, well…I'm looking for the immediate family of…of Tommy Ryan."

He stopped wiping the glass at this and looked at me queerly. "I've not seen yeh before," he finally said.

I blinked, startled. "Erm, well, no, I don't imagine you have, as I've never been to Ireland before."

He still hadn't resumed wiping the glass. "Well…the way I heard it—and me source isn't known ter lie—ol' Tommy was killed on the crossing ter America. Now, just what's yer business, miss?"

I fiddled with a loose thread on my coat. "Well…I was on that crossing, too. The _Titanic_, I mean. And…look, I just want to meet Tommy's family and, and tell them how their son died. It's the least I can do for them."

Something in his eyes softened as he set down the glass. "Aye, lass; that would be a comfort ter Missus Ryan. Their farm is about, oh, three miles from here. Keep heading north."

I thanked him, hoisted my sack back over my shoulder and left the pub. After glancing at a weathervane atop the postal office and determining which way was north, I set out for the Ryan home. I walked along the dusty dirt road until I was out of the town. I hadn't traveled like this in some time, but it came to me rather quickly; after what I judged to be roughly three miles, I came to a small brook at the trough of a hill. Upon deciding that the Ryan home couldn't be _too_ far away, I stopped to get a drink of water. I felt awakened after my short respite, and, deciding that I was unobserved, I grabbed my sack and ran up the hill on a whim. I paused for only a moment at the crest before running down the hill, laughing wildly. I came to a halt at the trough, panting and laughing. I rested against a wooden fence.

A younger-looking man had been some yards away from the fence, shoveling what I took to be presents left by the farm animals. He came forward slowly, his shovel over his shoulder and his gloves and boots covered in the stinky stuff. There was something undeniably familiar about him, something that caught my attention and held it. He leaned his shovel against the fence post and rested his forearms on the fence, grinning as he removed his gloves. "Yer not from around here, I take it?"

I shook my head, smiling and trying not to gag from the stench he carried. Poor fellow. "No, I'm not. I suppose I was very obvious? I wasn't aware anyone was watching until a few moments ago, actually."

"Ah; American," he observed. "Never been meself, but I have kin there." He held out the hand not holding the grimy gloves. "Gabe Ryan. Don't worry, me hands are clean."

I took his hand and shook it, my heart speeding up. "Angie Marshall. Ryan, did you say?"

He nodded, looking politely puzzled. "Aye, that I did."

I hesitated before speaking again. "Did you…did you have a brother named Tommy, by any chance?"

He looked floored, and I knew the answer before he even spoke. "I…ma'am, Tommy passed on two years ago. Yeh must be mistaken."

"No, no, that's the Tommy I mean, I'm sure of it," I insisted.

He shook his head. "Miss…Tommy never…he didn't know any Americans. He went down on the _Titanic_. There are loads of Tom Ryans all over the place; yeh've got him confused fer another."

"I'm sure there are, but I _am_ referring to the Tommy Ryan who was on the _Titanic_," I said, trying to hold onto my patience. "I was _there_. I was on the ship with him. I saw him die. I came looking for his family, to, to tell them how he went so that you all could…I dunno…have some peace in that, I suppose," I said lamely, realizing how pathetic I probably sounded.

Gabe Ryan gave me a hard stare for a long moment. Finally he said slowly, "Miss…I think yeh'd better come with me."

I was more than happy to oblige. I climbed to the top of the fence and swung my legs over, dropping down on the springy ground below. Gabe Ryan picked up his shovel again, resting it on his shoulder once more, and led the way briskly through the field of stinky piles. A small house came into view; I thought it was miraculous that such a small house could have ever housed fourteen people. Before I had time to marvel, however, we were at the front porch and walking through the creaky door. I heard two Irish voices arguing off to the side; a few moments later, a short, skinny boy stormed out of the room and into where we were standing.

"What're you at, Harry?" Gabe asked suspiciously.

"Nothin'!" the boy named Harry protested. "Ma can't keep her hair on because I outgrew my last dress; it's not _my_ fault!"

_Dress_? Why on earth would a boy have a dress? It dawned on me then that "Harry" was not, in fact, a he. Yes, there were some signs of femininity, albeit not many. She had a hard face for a girl and a flat chest. Not that I was judging; I've never had much to brag about. She carried herself like a boy and sounded something like a boy and her short hair and britches gave her the appearance of a boy, but she was a girl. She eyed me suspiciously. "Who the hell 'r you?"

"Watch yer mouth!" Gabe warned. "Go on, shoo!"

Harry glared at him, gave me another suspicious look, and stormed out of the house.

"Me sister," Gabe said apologetically. "She's…always like this."

If this was Tommy's little sister, I wondered what on earth the rest of his sisters were like.

A woman came out of the room off to the side, and judging by the apron covering her unmistakably plump torso and the hands that she was wiping off on the apron, I took the room to be the kitchen. Her salt-and-pepper hair was falling out of a bun and her body showed evidence of having birthed twelve children. She looked surprised as she took me in; poor though I was, I still retained American dress, which was noticeably different from Irish dress. That and I was a total stranger.

"Who's this?" she asked.

"This is Angie Marshall, Ma," Gabe explained. "She…she said she was with Tommy on, on the _Titanic_."

Mrs. Ryan gave me a hard look not unlike Gabe's. "Oh?" She gave me a once-over. "Yeh haven't made me a grandmother again and now yeh expect money, do yeh?"

"Wha—no, nothing of the sort!" I assured her hastily, wishing to dispel _that_ notion as quickly as possible.

"I hoped not," Mrs. Ryan said bluntly. She hadn't moved from her place and I was too terrified to move from mine. Had I made a mistake in coming here? I had no idea that Tommy's family would be so…harsh. That, and I hadn't expected to be judged as a, well, trollop.

"Look, I can see I made a mistake in coming here," I began, moving towards the door. My ticket over here had been for nothing; it was wasted. "I just wanted to meet Tommy's family, and I had thought that maybe you would have wanted to hear how he died from a first-hand account, but—"

"Yeh saw him?" Mrs. Ryan cut across me. "Then why aren't you dead, too?"

I took a deep breath. "Well, he didn't die in the water, ma'am—"

"They told me he had."

"They were wrong," I said, starting to get a little annoyed. "I saw him, he was shot!" I felt guilty at her shocked expression, but I saw no other way to inculcate what I was trying to say. "Ma'am, Tommy was shot by an officer, who then killed himself. I was there. It was a quick death; painless. He never touched the water. I wish I could say the same for others."

Mrs. Ryan backed up a little, her hands to her heart. "My boy…he never suffered?"

I shook my head. "I doubt he felt anything; he was dead before he was caught."

Mrs. Ryan gazed at me for a moment, her look searching. Finally, she said, "Gabe…why don't yeh go finish yer work in the fields?"

"But Ma—" Gabe began.

"Go."

Gabe scowled but complied. The moment the door had slammed shut behind him, Mrs. Ryan motioned for me to follow her into the kitchen. "Sit down," she instructed, gesturing to the table. I obliged and she sat across the table from me. "Now. Angie, was it?"

I nodded. "Yessum."

"Supposin' you tell me about my son."

And so I did. I found it amazingly easy to talk to Mrs. Ryan about the _Titanic_; easier than I had ever thought. I hadn't spoken of it for quite some time, and even then it had been with fellow survivors. I found myself pouring out the tale of how I had stowed away on the _Titanic_ after Jack and Fabrizio had won third-class tickets. I related how I had met the Cartmells and how they had let me stay in their cabin. My voice caught when I brought up Tommy, but she patted my hand sympathetically and urged me to go on. I summed up the Ship of Dream's maiden voyage, finally getting to the sinking. That was by far the hardest part. No matter what I said, nothing seemed to even remotely describe what I was trying to say. But I think she understood.

Mrs. Ryan looked proud when she learned that Tommy had rattled the gates for as long as he did; she told me that he had always been like that. I made sure to emphasize the fact that Tommy helped me onto a lifeboat and had been some small source of comfort despite only knowing me a few days. I spoke of Fabrizio, too, but I knew that she wanted to hear about Tommy, so I spoke mostly of him. It was hard to talk about Tommy's death; that particular moment had haunted me more than much else of what I saw that night. I think the only thing that haunted my dreams more than Tommy's demise was the image of the chalk-white faces of women and children who had not gotten to a boat in time.

I had stopped at the Scottish officer's suicide; I did not think that Mrs. Ryan would care about the rest of the story, but she asked me after I had gone silent, "And what happened after that? How did yeh get off? And yer friend Fabrizio…what became of him?"

And so I told her the rest of the story. I recalled aloud how Fabrizio had had to pull me along and then how I had suddenly lost him. I remembered the wave sweeping me away and how it had literally carried me to the lifeboat that I clung to. When I said this, Mrs. Ryan made the sign of the cross and said, "Praise Jesus, that be a miracle if ever I heard of one."

When I had finally told my tale and ended with living with Maggie and Eugene, my voice was hoarse from talking for so long and my throat was dry. Mrs. Ryan made tea and I drank the warm liquid gratefully, savoring the feeling as it smoothed over my parched throat.

"I'm sorry fer mistrustin' yeh earlier, Angie," Mrs. Ryan said gently. "It's only just that…well, Tommy…he, he had gotten inter trouble with more than a few lasses in his life…"

"I can see that," I said, smiling a little.

"Oh, aye," Mrs. Ryan said, returning the smile warmly. "He had quite a way with women. Although I'll never understand why; he could be so sour!"

I smiled again; that sounded like Tommy, sure enough.

Mrs. Ryan cleared her throat, fingering her collar and her expression turning solemn. "I know that yer not a mother yet, Miss Angie, so I know yeh can't understand, but…yeh've set my heart at rest more than you can possibly imagine by bringin' me word of my son's death. It, it helps me, in a manner of speakin', to know just _how_ he died. I've often wondered…how it happened. Yeh've put my mind at ease now, lass."

I nodded and looked down; no, I couldn't know how Mrs. Ryan felt. After all, I had never had any family at all that I knew of, let alone a fully-grown son. After a few moments of contemplative silence, I rose, thanked her for the tea and for allowing me to talk to her, and I prepared to go. One thing led to another, and before I knew what was happening, I had agreed to stay on with the Ryans for awhile.

Life with the Ryans was quiet, simple and utterly perfect. They gave me relatively simple chores to do and I almost felt like I was part of the family, if only briefly. Nora, the third child and the oldest one to remain in Ireland, already had a brood of children and bore a strong resemblance to her mother; she visited every Sunday and helped cook. Ronnie was the most stubborn and mule-headed man I ever met; he had unruly hair and beard and never apologized if his opinions offended anyone; nevertheless, he was always good for a laugh. Lilly was a little older than I and had a jovial husband, Kieran, and a little baby, Donald. She was as sweet as could be and I never knew her to dislike anyone.

Joe was my age, but he was hardly ever at home; he frequented the pub in his quest to prove his maturity, as many boys his age do. "Harry" I have already mentioned; she could have very easily passed for a boy. Harry also had one of the dirtiest mouths I've ever heard; I know she got it from her brothers. Other than her sailor mouth and her deep cynicism, she was all right. Matthew and Mark were younger boys who particularly enjoyed pranks; we often found worms in our broth or frogs in our beds and shoes. I screamed one morning when I got out of bed and stepped on a dead rat that they had planted there. Other than this, they were decent boys.

And then there was Gabe. He was always very gruff, but I like to imagine that I grew on him, even just a little bit. Gabe was—_is_—so like Tommy. I've often wondered if the only reason I made an effort to befriend Gabe was because he reminded me of Tommy. He once asked me the same thing. I told him I didn't know. I _still_ don't know, actually.

After a few months I felt that I had imposed on the Ryans long enough and decided to go. I left early in the morning; I hate goodbyes. Gabe was already up and walked with me to the edge of the property. He promised to give a message to his family, and then we both turned away and walked on, not looking back.

I snuck onto a train by myself; the first time I had ever done so. It felt strange to not have to pull up Jack or Fabrizio; it was as if no time had passed at all since I was a girl and they were alive. At Queenstown, I argued with a captain and convinced him to let me work on his tramp steamer that was headed to Southampton. I have to confess that I bawled like a baby; the city was just as I remembered it. The White Star Line headquarters building gave me chills, as did the pub Jack had won the tickets in. I didn't go in there.

Instead, I took out a carefully-folded slip of paper and read it through several times, trying to impress the funny street names and the number into my head. I approached a constable and asked him where I might find the street (which I later discovered that I had mispronounced horrifically).


	21. A Burden Lifted

A/N: I…wow, I can't believe that this is the penultimate chapter. A week from today will be the last chapter of this fic. I should be depressed, I really should, but…THERE ARE OVER 100 REVIEWS FOR THIS FIC! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!

Also, literally RIGHT after I finished editing this chapter, **Bohemian Anne** sent me a graphic for this fic and has promised to put it up on her site soon! The banner is AMAZING and, in my opinion, absolutely perfect for this fic! Just wanted to share my euphoria ;)

And on another happy note, the new _Star Trek_ movie is AMAZING. I saw it twice over the weekend, which is just not enough. If you haven't seen it already, go do it. Now. Even if you're not a Trekkie, you will love it. And if you've already seen it, go see it again. ;)

On a final note, Happy Memorial Day!

Mucho gracias to **Rookss., Megfly, hippogriff-tamer, DawsonGurl,** **armygurl07,** **TKJeane,** and **Gaslight** for reviewing last chapter!

* * *

Lights was hardly ever home, but his wife, Sylvia, was excellent company, as were his children. They had five in all: Roger, Richard, Mavis, Clare and Brian. I was not quite sure what Sylvia would think when I showed up on their doorstep, but a quick explanation from Lights and she practically demanded I sit down and eat something because I looked famished. People always tend to say that, even when I'm far from it.

Sylvia never asked me to relate my _Titanic_ experience, but Roger and Richard did frequently. I told them only the parts about how heroic their father was—they always looked pleased afterwards. I offered to take them on outings and such frequently to make up for my intruding presence (Sylvia assured me this was not the case, but there again, she was of the breed of lady that acts as if nothing at all inconveniences her so as you can't tell when something really _does_ bother them), and it was in this way that I became better acquainted with England; that is, not the slummy parts I had been in with Jack and Fabrizio.

While in Southampton, I also met up with a number of my fellow Collapsible B survivors, especially Harry Bride. After obtaining his address from an obligatory Lights, I took Roger and Richard with me (they knew their way around better than I did) and navigated my way to his flat.

"Who are we seeing, Angie?" Richard asked for what had to be the thousandth time.

"My friend Harry," I explained patiently, knocking on the door.

"Yes, but who _is_ he?"

I sighed. "He was on the _Titanic_ with me. But _please_ don't mention it in front of him; he might not like to talk about it."

Truth be told, there had been a niggling at the back of my mind that suggested Harry might not remember me. But the moment the door swung open, he stared and then beamed and exclaimed, "Angie Marshall! And here I thought you said you had no folks!"

I smiled at him. "I don't; these are Lights's boys."

"Well what on earth are you doing with them? And _do_ come in; old Mrs. Kittery next door is most likely peeping out her window and lamenting what an ill-mannered sot I am."

While Harry made some tea and provided stale crackers for the boys (they didn't seem to mind; they were too enthralled by his ship models), we talked of our life after _Titanic_, all the while avoiding discussing the ship itself. He had kept a low profile after the enquiries and broken off his engagement to a Miss Mabel Ludlow and instead became engaged to a Miss Lucy Downie.

"She's something, she is," Harry said, winking. He went on to declare that my life was distinctly boring and that "a young girl like me oughta have some fun once in awhile." "Honestly, you're eighteen years old, the world is your home, and you're _watching Lights's sprogs_?"

"You're awful opinionated," I noted, surprised but admittedly pleased at this bluntness. It wasn't a quality one often found in people at the time. "I happen to like kids. I may have some someday. And what about _you_?"

"_I_ happen to enjoy my station in life immensely," Harry declared, setting down a cup of tea before me. "I've got a cozy flat, a steady job, a bee-_yoo_-tiful girl I plan on marrying someday and I get to sail often."

"Have you ever been on these ships?" Richard interrupted, indicating the models.

"Most of them," Harry replied, getting up to show off the models. He proceeded to name each one, but that only held the boys' interest for a little bit.

"Were you really on the _Titanic_ with Dad and Miss Angie?" Richard wanted to know.

I felt my face warm up; I knew I was turning scarlet with embarrassment. I would apologize profusely to Harry and yell at the boys later. Harry paused for a moment before saying calmly, "Yes, I was."

Luckily, Roger smacked Richard and hissed for him to shut up then.

* * *

Harry and I continued to meet up over the course of my stay, and I was introduced to his fiancée, Lucy Downie. She was a sweet girl and she seemed to make Harry check his tongue—a feat in itself. Lights invited him over to dinner one night, which delighted the boys to no end; Harry, quite frankly, fascinated them. When the hour grew late and the children had been sent to bed and the coffee was low in its mugs and there were only a few bites of coffee cake left, the talk turned serious. It turned to the _Titanic_.

I can't quite remember how it started, but once it did, there was no way of stopping it. Sylvia quietly fetched a bottle of wine and remained sympathetically silent as we remembered. Remembered the tilting of the ship. Remembered the shouts and the screams. Remembered the frigid water that still gave us chills. Remembered the horrified faces of the dead, bobbing in the water. Remembered the way the majestic lady sank into the ocean, taking our lives as we knew it down with her. Lights and Harry had haunted looks in their eyes as they spoke—I probably did too. I felt cold and hugged myself, remembering the icy water.

"If there's such a thing as swimming in pure ice, I know I lived it," Harry said quietly. "It…nothing has ever come close to it."

"Eugene says that sometimes, when he works at the elevator company, the noises sound like the ship. Whenever I hear a scream, I freeze. And baseball…whenever I walk by a baseball game, it sounds…just like it." I paused. "This is gonna haunt us for the rest of our lives, isn't it?"

"Yes." Lights nodded slowly. He hesitated, wringing his hands. "No doubt you…heard about Colonel Gracie?"

"When he died?" I asked. "Yes; it was all over the papers. I dropped by the funeral. What about him?"

Lights hesitated again. "You know, they say that…that the sinking proved too much for him. It strained his heart and killed him."

Harry shifted. I glanced down at my lap. I had heard it. Colonel Gracie was the first of the Collapsible B survivors to die, just in the December following the sinking. The medical reason was heart complications, but we all knew better than that. If any of those physicians had seen what that poor man had seen—what _any_ of us had seen—they wouldn't dismiss it as simple heart complications.

When the hour was very late, Harry headed home. We did not speak of the _Titanic_ for quite some time afterwards. On my way to bed, Lights admitted that he would have trouble sleeping.

"I have some laudanum in the cabinet, only for certain circumstances. You're welcome to join me in a sip, if you like," Lights offered.

I knew that he was doing it to be kind. He knew just as well as I that laudanum did more than liquor when it came to forgetting; it would have helped erase the nightmares I relived that night. But I declined his offer.

* * *

Two days after Harry's visit and our reminiscence, I headed east, to Italy. I wanted to find Fabrizio's family now, to offer the same comfort I had offered the Ryans. I had always loved Fabrizio; he was my brother. I hoped that his family would be similar. Unfortunately, it was a difficult task tracking down the De Rossi family; there were many, many people of that name. But a man by the name of Milo finally, _finally_ told me that he knew of a Fabrizio De Rossi; after a strangled conversation (he didn't understand very much English) I identified this Fabrizio with my Fabri and begged him to tell me where I might find his mother.

_Signora_ De Rossi was a plump, olive-skinned woman who did not like me. At all. She waddled out from her house, shouted at me in Italian and had to summon her son and Fabri's brother, Patrizio, to translate. I tried to tell my story, but she wanted nothing to do with me. I know this because she told me as much. All she would say was that her son was dead and she did not want to speak to me. This was a far cry from Mrs. Ryan, who had bid me stay in her home amongst her family. I didn't try to encourage _Signora_ De Rossi any further; I just turned away.

Patrizio chased after me and wanted to talk. I was able to tell him of Fabrizio's death—he, at least, understood and appreciated it. He scratched the back of his neck when I had finished my story. "My-a mama, she…she-a does not-a like talk about a-him. Fabri. It easier for her to, ah…pretend he…not is, _comprende_?"

I nodded. "_Sì._" I was quiet for a moment. "Goodbye, Patrizio De Rossi."

He called after me a few moments later. "_Ringraziare, signorina_."

I nodded and continued down the street, feeling that familiar burning behind my eyes when I remembered Jack's words to Fabrizio: _"You're not gonna see your mom again for a long time."_

I left Italy the very next morning.

* * *

I would have gone elsewhere, but war had broken out in Europe and it would only be a matter of time before America became involved. I headed back to England and stayed with the Lightollers; Sylvia informed me that Lights and Harry had gone off to the war and that if I knew what was best for me, I would get home to the States as quick as I could. I had no money, and I wasn't about to take any from Sylvia. Finally, after a few weeks of debating, we agreed that I would pay her back as soon as possible. Unfortunately, it took awhile to book passage on a ship; many were being prepared for possible naval warfare and still more were full in third-class (Sylvia was stunned I asked for steerage).

There was an opening on the _Britannic_, but the moment I found out it was _Titanic_'s sister-ship, I point-blank refused to go on it. It was still relatively new, and I had learned not to put too much stock into new White Star Line ships, let alone the sister ship of the creation that had taken the only family I had ever known. There was an open place on the _Lusitania_, the ship I had come over on and the only real luxury liner they were sailing now, and we bought a ticket for it. However, Cunard Line informed us that there was a cancellation on the _New York_, which was setting sail for the States sooner than the _Lusitania_. So, in April of 1915, I bid Sylvia and the children goodbye and boarded the ship.

I loved the journey home; steerage was full of immigrants, many of whom were trying to escape the imminent war, and there was the same blend of people as on the _Titanic_. I made my way back to the Dalys and prepared to settle down for awhile.

Less than two weeks after I returned home, I read in the papers that the _Lusitania_ had been torpedoed by a German U-boat and had foundered off the coast of Ireland in less than twenty minutes. Many had died in the cold water, including one of the famous Vanderbilts. And to think, I had almost boarded that ship! If that's not irony, I don't know what is.

Little of great interest happened after that. When the United States became involved in the war, most of our men went off to fight in it. Some of them didn't return. Our resources grew thin and money was tight. I took a job as a telephone operator, which helped with the bills. When the war was over, I quit and took a job as a stewardess with the White Star Line; now that the war was over, I knew there was little chance of being torpedoed, and thanks to _Titanic_, regulations had been placed that would prevent such another tragedy.

The stewardess job lasted for a few years; I probably would have been sacked much sooner if Lights and Harry Lowe and Harry Bride weren't on most of my ships and there to convince the head stewardesses that I meant well, I really did. I think the final straw was when, in accordance to the new flapper fashion that I was becoming excessively fond of, I bobbed my hair. Alice, my head at the time, launched into a tirade about proper conduct and how I had already been neglecting my appearance (I liked to unpin my ridiculous hat on my breaks, which Alice could not abide) and how I had tarnished the name of White Star Line. Bobbed hair would be permissible a few years later, but when I did it, it was considered controversial among the more conservative passengers.

It's not that I was _glad_ to be fired or anything; Lord knew I wasn't one to turn down money. But I wasn't meant to stay in one place doing one thing forever. I had thought that going overseas would make me feel like traveling, but the problem was that I couldn't _go_ anywhere. I stayed on a ship and helped women dress and brought them their tea and instructed passengers on the proper procedure for getting into lifeboats (I stressed the importance of this to the point where I'm sure I annoyed several passengers), but I didn't get to really travel. And so Alice and I came to the agreement that the voyage back to America would be my last.

It was on this last voyage aboard the second _Majestic_ that I ran into Gabe Ryan. He was traveling third-class and on his way to America for a chance at a better life. On my break that night, we sat together at a table in the steerage party and caught up. The Ryans were all well, and a few more grandchildren had been added to the litter. We met up whenever I had a break; it was as if no time had passed at all. I suppose it was very obvious, but less than two years later, we were married by Algernon Barkworth, a Justice of the Peace who had been on Collapsible B. We finally took the tour of Europe I had always wanted; it was far less extravagant than most honeymoons, but I found it perfect.

When we returned, we moved to Monterey and settled down there. We passed by Pacific Grove, but it held no real memories for me. I also convinced Gabe to go to Santa Monica a few times; a few more attractions had been added, but we mostly rode the roller coaster and rode horses in the surf like Jack and I had years and years before. I found it more alluring than Gabe did; he was an Irishman and being a connoisseur of beer, he didn't like the "cheap shite" at the kiosks.

Nine months into our marriage, I gave birth to my first son, Thomas Eugene Ryan. We debated over names for a long time; Jack, Fabrizio, Charles, Harold…the list went on. But finally we decided to name him after his late uncle and the man who had taken me in when I needed a family more than anything. The Ryans who lived in America flocked to Monterey, as did a few friends who had been spread over the continent. Baby Tommy and I were baptized a month after his birth. The twins, Charlie and Harry, followed two years later in 1928, and Cora, our only girl (although she acts very much like a boy), came two years after that.

The past fourteen years have been the calmest and most serene of my life, and I would not change them for the world. Oh, we've had our ups and downs; I'll _never_ forget when Tommy broke a window with his _brand-new_ slingshot and his father took a belt to his hide. And the twins are exactly like their Uncles Matthew and Mark; I have to search their pockets every night to make sure they aren't trying to sneak lizards and frogs and even snakes into the house. But Cora is perhaps the most troublesome; she's always getting into trouble for punching and, on occasion, biting. But again; I wouldn't trade any of it, not for anything.

I often wonder where life would have taken me had Jack not won those tickets to the _Titanic_. He and Fabrizio would both be alive, for one thing, and I most likely wouldn't be married to Gabe. I do wonder—would I still be hopelessly in love with Jack? And would he have possibly returned those feelings with no Rose to dissuade him? Would we still be a trio after all these years, or would something have driven us apart? I can never know, not until that day I join all of them in the life after death. All I know now is that I am utterly happy where life has taken me.

And so ends my tale. I have heard little from my British friends, for they are in the midst of a second world war, one that I fear America will soon take part in. Gabe and I have been living in Monterey for all fourteen years of our marriage, although, up until the war, we spent nearly every summer with his family in Ireland or visiting friends in England. Our oldest son is a strapping young boy who shows perilous signs of turning into his father and his namesake. The twins drive us between insane and proud, and although we scold our daughter for her fighting, I know Gabe is secretly very proud of her hot temper.

I finish my tale now after returning from Patrick's funeral. Gabe is at work, driving people around the city, and the children are at school where they are no doubt dreaming away during arithmetic or frustrating their teachers. The dog, Jackie, is panting happily while I scratch his belly with my foot. And I am writing this now in the attic, surrounded by snippets from the papers about the _Titanic_ and its survivors and photographs of the past.

I feel, now, that I have done the _Titanic_ and its passengers what justice I can. I have written down my tale, as much as I can possibly recall. I will store it now in the trunk with the other _Titanic_ things; someday my children will read this and hopefully, my babies, you will understand why I have never been able to speak freely about the Night to Remember. I also hope that you will realize the importance of your names and be proud of them.


	22. Epilogue

A/N: So…wow. This is the last chapter. I'm thoroughly depressed. Approximately a year ago, a "what if" question came to mind: What if Jack and Fabrizio had a friend who was a young girl in love with Jack? And what if she came with them on the _Titanic_? And thus Angie Marshall was born.

This story has made me experience a vast range of emotions: happiness, sadness, euphoria, frustration, indecision, anger, resentment, cleverness—the list goes on. But mostly, this has been my baby, and ending it is like when you realize the kids you babysit are too old for a babysitter. Or…something equally heart-wrenching. Basically, I am going to miss working on this so much.

I really want to take this time to dedicate this chapter to all of my readers; it truly means a lot to me, all of you. But most importantly, I want to thank those people who took the time to give me their thoughts on this story and help me grow as a writer and help this story improve. So enormous thanks to the following: **Gaslight, Nadine Dawson, hippogriff-tamer, Yuki Sakura-chan, Opaque Opal, G. W. Failure, Roo, armygurl07, Megfly, Rookss., SareSaysStfu, Wen, Ven, WenWen, DawsonGurl, TKJeane, Rory4** and **Strange and Intoxicating –rsa-**. It means so much to me, and I want to thank all of you for your feedback, good and bad.

And now, I present to you the final installment of "Save All Who Dare the Eagle's Flight." I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_O Spirit, whom the Father sent_

_To spread across the firmament_

_O wind of heaven, by Thy might_

_Save all who dare the eagle's flight_

* * *

TITANIC SURVIVOR DIES AT 71

_Angelica Ryan (nee Marshall) died this morning at the age of seventy-one in her Monterey home. Mrs. Ryan is reported to have died in her sleep from heart complications. _

"_I think I can speak for the whole family when I say that our main consolation is that she felt no pain," Thomas Ryan, eldest son of the deceased, said today. _

_Mrs. Ryan is a survivor of the famous _Titanic _accident; coincidentally, her death is the fifty-fifth anniversary of the sinking. She was the only lady to have gotten aboard Collapsible B. Mrs. Ryan was sixteen at the time and declined to speak to reporters about the incident. Mrs. Ryan married Gabriel Ryan in 1925; incidentally, he was the brother of a victim of the sinking that it is believed Mrs. Ryan was acquainted with. Mr. Ryan passed on in 1964. Mrs. Ryan is survived by three sons, a daughter, two daughters-in-law, one son-in-law and four grandchildren, with a fifth on the way._

"_If it's a girl, we're naming her after Mama," Cora James (nee Ryan) announced of her unborn child._

* * *

April 20th, 1967

I am not Angie Marshall; I am her son, Tommy Ryan. My mother died five days ago. She told me on her deathbed about this trunk in the attic, the trunk that held hundreds of articles and pictures about the RMS _Titanic_. I found this at the top, along with a note that this was first and foremost for my eyes; after that, I could do with it as I wished. I have decided to preserve this and show it to my children when they come of age.

Growing up with Mama, you would never know that she had ever been through something so traumatic. She used to pinch us when we were in a sour mood; she said life was too short to waste on sulking. And it really is. Dad, Uncle Lights, Eugene, Maggie, Bertha and Harry (Bride) are all dead; I suppose it was only a matter of time before Mama would follow them.

Mama didn't tell me until I was sixteen that she had been on the _Titanic_. I was stunned, to say the least. She didn't go into much detail; all she would say was that she had been a steerage passenger and that she had been aboard Collapsible B. She admitted that Uncle Lights and Eugene and Maggie and Bertha and Harry were also survivors, which was how she knew them in the first place. Dad later told me privately that her friends had died that night, along with his brother, whom she had also known. I was also asked to never bring it up if I could help it.

On her deathbed, Mama kept talking about the _Titanic_. She would grasp at the bedsheets and mumble something about the ship. I could not for the life of me interpret these hazy moments; after reading her story, I can now. She died in peace—although the doctors have confirmed it was heart complications, she never awoke and was never aware of what was going on. In fact, she had a serene expression on her face.

I write this in the back of her story because I feel that it is only right for her descendants to know how she died and to appreciate the woman that she was. I never realized it until it was too late.

I know now that she is in a far better place than Earth, that now she is with all those whom she lost fifty-five years ago. May all of them rest in peace.

* * *

_I am floating down to the _Titanic_ once again—something tells me this is the last time I shall ever do so. This is more vivid, more real than my dreams. The clutching in my heart has stopped; I feel completely painless now. I feel as if I am floating. The ship is reassembling itself; it's completely unrecognizable from the wreck it was. I'm gliding down the first-class deck—why does it seem so familiar to me? I am going without thinking; there is something pulling me. But even so, I want to go. _

_I come to a stop at familiar glass doors. I catch a fleeting glimpse at my reflection in the glass; I am sixteen again. Before this can register well in my mind, the doors are opened by uniformed stewards. _

"_We've been expecting you, miss," one says. _

_I smile at him and glide through; are my feet even touching the ground? But as I fully enter the room, I know that they are not; I am finally here forever now. I move past a blend of faces; some familiar and others not. I see the Cartmells; I try to apologize, but they all shake their heads, beaming._

"_Don't blame yourself, Angie," they tell me. _

_The Gunderson cousins dip their heads at me, smiling. The McFarlands are waving at me; I wave back. They won't let me apologize either._

_Fabrizio and Helga are still where they were before; it is as if they have never moved from their places. Jack is still on the stairs, looking at the clock. Tommy—the first one—steps out from the throng and beams. He looks so handsome without a cigarette in his mouth; he's glowing. _

"_Can I stay here forever now, Tommy?" I ask. The years have washed away. I am no longer an old woman of seventy-one; I'm fresh and young at sixteen again. _

_Tommy nods, still beaming and glowing. All of them are glowing. I'm glowing too. "Aye, lass; it's your time."_

_I kiss his cheek and move to Helga and Fabrizio; I am the happiest I have ever been and also the calmest. Fabrizio grasps my hands and kisses both my cheeks while Helga welcomes me "home;" I can understand her Norwegian now. Is she even speaking Norwegian? Are we even speaking English? We seem to understand each other without even needing to speak. Finally, I move up to Jack._

"_Where's Rose?" I ask him as he turns. I am not jealous or upset; I _want_ to see her._

_He shakes his blond head, smiling just as contentedly as everyone else. "It's not her time yet. But she'll come soon."_

_He kisses my forehead; I love him, but I am no longer _in_ love with him. Everything is as it should be._

"_Welcome back to _Titanic_, Angie," he says, squeezing my hand. Everyone applauds as I turn to look at them._

_I am home. I am home._


End file.
